One night in '91
by the local knicker merchant
Summary: One night in '91, a night that would change Carla Connor's life forever...
1. Chapter 1: 16 years

**Chapter 1: 16 years**

Carla slammed the cupboard door shut and checked the next one. Nothing. Slam! One after the other, they were all empty. Slam! Slam! Slam! Finally, the fridge; she knew that wouldn't be empty. But there was nothing in there that Carla wanted.

"Mum!" Carla shouted to someone somewhere in the house. "Mum! There's no food! Again!"

Carla stood in the middle of their grotty kitchen in their grotty house on their grotty estate, hands on hips, glaring at the empty cupboards as if they would fill up with food through the sheer force of her will.

"For god's sake!"

Carla stormed out of the kitchen and into the darkened living room, lit only by the television that was beaming soul-destroying mind-numbing daytime programming from the corner of the room, and scowled at the woman slumped on the sofa. Carla hated everything about this woman; from the way she stared, glassy-eyed and vacant, at the television, the way her hand hovered protectively over the half-empty bottle of Bacardi, to the faint mustiness of slovenly laziness that oozed from her pores and made Carla want to vomit.

"Mum, there's nothing to eat."

But her mum didn't reply; she simply continued to stare at the television in a drunken stupor.

"Mum! Did you hear me?! There is no food in the house! Why would you care, you got your booze, you're happy. Why do I bother with you? You're not even listening to me!"

Carla crouched by her mum's tatty handbag that was lying next to the sofa and rummaged through the detritus within, searching for something, anything, to save the family from total ruin. In the end, she tipped the contents of the bag out onto the floor and picked through the mostly useless items, collecting any coins she came across.

"Well done, mum. Not even two flaming pounds to your name."

Carla glared at her mother; she wished she would react, even to yell at her, punish her for going through her bag; do anything to show she cared even a little bit. But she didn't move, not one muscle; she didn't show one sign of recognition or understanding that her 16-year-old daughter was stood in front of her begging for food.

"You're pathetic!"

* * *

Carla fled from the house; she had to get away from the apathy and the decay that infected her home. But everywhere she looked there was apathy and decay; in this estate where generations on generations knew nothing of life except to collect their benefits and piss it up against the wall every weekend; where having babies was a legitimate career choice; either that or walk the streets and sell your body.

Carla shivered in the late winter chill; she'd been so desperate to escape, she'd left the house with no jacket, no purse, nothing except the shrapnel from her mum's purse that she'd shoved into the pocket of her jeans.

With her stomach rumbling loudly with hunger, Carla made a beeline for the local corner store and, browsing the shelves, calculated and recalculated in her head the various food combinations she could buy with the money she had to hand.

Glancing up, Carla noticed that the store owner was staring at her, following her every movement with his eyes, suspicious of this estate girl.

"What are you looking at?" Carla challenged the store owner.

"If you're not going to make a purchase, could you kindly leave the premises."

"I've got money!" Carla pulled the shrapnel from her pocket and held it out as proof. "See!"

But there was no way she was handing over any money to that tosser; she tucked the money safely back into her jeans pocket, took a final look at the food on display and stalked out of the shop, throwing one final death stare at the store owner.

A triumphant smile on her face, Carla walked, head held high, around the corner and out of sight of the store windows, where she pulled from her jeans waistband a chocolate bar she'd stolen from the store.

Ripping open the packaging, Carla stuffed the chocolate into her mouth like an addict as the intoxicating sugar rushed into her system, giving her a much-needed high.

With supreme self-control, she managed to stop herself from eating the whole bar; wrapping the remaining half in the packaging, she stuffed the chocolate into her pocket.

* * *

"Rob!" Carla stood on the side of the football pitch and yelled to the group of lads having a kick-around. "Rob!"

Having decided he couldn't ignore his screaming sister any longer, Rob jogged over to her, a scowl on his face, demanding to know what she wanted.

"Here," Carla took the half-eaten chocolate bar from her pocket and held it out to her brother.

"I'm not havin' your leftovers!" Rob protested.

"Just take it!"

"No!"

"It's all you'll get today."

"Shit! Not again…"

"What do you expect with that waste of space."

"Oi! She's still our mum!"

"Whatever. Do you want it or not?"

Rob eyed the remains of the chocolate bar; he didn't want to take it, but experience had proven that, when their mum was on a bender which, if he was honest, was most of the time these days, feeding her kids was bottom of her list of priorities.

"Fine."

Rob snatched the bar from Carla's hand and turned back to the game.

"I think the word you're looking for is 'thanks'!" Carla yelled after Rob, but he didn't hear, didn't wanna hear, didn't care, who knew. Carla sighed and wished she'd eaten the whole bar, the ungrateful git.

* * *

Carla had little else to do but wander the streets of the estate; unwilling to go back home and unwelcome in her best pal's house. As much as she loved Michelle and loved hanging out with her brothers Paul and Liam, she couldn't stand their mum, Helen, and the way she looked down on Carla just because she was a Donovan. Carla was allowed to hate on her own mum but, if anyone else dared, there'd be hell to pay.

It was this place; this estate. It was stifling her, choking her to death. She had to get away. Spotting a bus in the distance on the nearby main road, Carla sprinted to the nearest stop, arriving just in time to jump aboard with the last of the waiting passengers. She made her way down the aisle to the back row where she sat, slumped down low, praying that she wasn't seen.

* * *

"Tickets please."

"Shit!" Carla muttered to herself as she watched the ticket inspector shuffle slowly down the aisle.

"Have your tickets ready for inspection."

Typical, Carla thought. The one time she didn't buy a ticket! All Carla could do was pretend the next stop was hers and hope the ticket inspector let her through. She pressed the button to signal the next stop and stood, mustering a confidence she didn't have, before walking as casually as she could to the rear door where she waited for the bus to stop.

"Ticket please, miss."

Carla ignored the request.

"Excuse me, miss, can I see your ticket?"

Carla couldn't ignore the inspector any longer; she turned to him, a look of innocent confusion on her face.

"I'm sorry?"

"Can I see your ticket please?"

"Sure."

Carla shoved her hand into her pocket, as if to retrieve her ticket, wondering exactly how long the ruse would last before the inspector became suspicious.

Not long at all it seemed.

"Do you have a ticket?"

"Yes!" Carla pretended to look affronted by the inspector's slight on her honesty. As the bus screeched to a halt and the inspector grabbed for a handrail to save himself from falling, Carla seized her only opportunity. The rear door opened; Carla ran, leaping off the step and onto the ground. She ran at full pelt away from the bus, laughing as the adrenalin kicked in, and exhilarating in the knowledge that she'd got one over that boorish inspector.

Carla twisted her head around, peering back at the bus, anxious to see if the inspector had given chase.

Slam!

Carla fell to the ground, stunned, her head spinning, the force of the impact was so strong.

"Are you okay?"

Carla peered up at the unknown speaker; a man in his twenties, no older. Brown hair, brown eyes, not much taller than her, pretty average really. Until he spoke; his voice was deep and rich and somehow comforting.

"Here," he held out his hand to Carla. "Let me help you."

Carla slapped his hand away.

"Get away from me!"

But still he held out his hand.

"Don't be silly."

Carla scowled at him as she struggled to her feet without his help.

"Why don't you watch where you're going?!" Carla berated the man, fully aware that she was the one not looking where she was going.

"Me?"

"Yes, you!" Carla countered, glaring at him in disgust. "I could've been seriously hurt!"

"I doubt it," the man smirked at the sight of her; this girl, with the most exquisite clear turquoise eyes he'd ever seen flashing in anger at him. The longer he looked at her, the more he was struck by her beauty. She wasn't the typical pretty girl, she'd never be called cute; but her features were striking and elegant; razor-sharp cheekbones, a mane of glossy black hair, plump lips that, when she bit her lower lip, made him almost explode with desire, the smooth alabaster skin, and those eyes… he could easily get lost in those eyes. But what he enjoyed most of all was her attitude; the way she stood, the way she stared, as if she was uttering an unspoken challenge to the world.

"What are you staring at?" Carla demanded, watching him as he stared at her, a daft grin on his face. "Weirdo."

Carla turned on her heel and, with her chin up and shoulders back as if she hadn't recently been knocked to the ground in a very ungraceful manner, flounced away from him.

The man, intrigued by this strange goddess-like creature, wasn't about to let her walk away from him that easily.

"Hey!" He shouted as he jogged to catch up with her. "I'm sorry, okay. I should've paid more attention."

Carla pointedly ignored him as he matched her stride and walked next to her.

"Come on," he begged good-naturedly. "Say you'll forgive me... Please."

"If only to stop you looking pathetic."

"Thanks very much, I'm sure."

They walked together in silence. Carla glanced at him every now and then out of the corner of her eye and wondered what it was that he was up to and just how she might shake him off. But he had no intention of being shaken off; his thoughts were solely occupied with how he could make this beautiful, exciting, sullen girl talk to him.

"Okay. Enough." Carla stopped in her tracks and turned to face him. "What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why are you walking with me?"

"Oh," he feigned surprise. "You think I'm walking with you?"

"Yes."

"No. I'm just walking this way. The same way as you." He smiled at her; she stared back at him quizzically. "Where are you going?"

"Umm…" He had her stumped. She didn't know where she was going and, having hopped off the bus in a part of town that was wholly unknown to her, she couldn't think of what to say.

"Well?"

"I'm just…" Carla floundered. "None of your business."

Carla shivered as a gust of wind swept down the street; she hugged her arms close to her body, but the cold pierced the thin fabric of her long-sleeved t-shirt, and the goose pimples spread across her skin in waves.

"Here," he spoke softly as he took off his leather jacket and handed it to her. "Put this on."

"I don't need –"

"You're shivering." He draped the jacket over her shoulders; even while her lips protested, her arms slipped into the sleeves of the jacket, still warm from the heat of his body.

"What about you? Won't you be cold now?"

"I'd rather be cold than see a lady go cold."

Carla was rendered temporarily speechless; she wasn't used to this kind of chivalry. The boys she went with from her estate wouldn't even notice if she were cold, let alone inconvenience themselves for her comfort.

"Thanks."

"So… what's your name?"

"None of your business."

"You're seriously not gonna tell me your name?"

Carla shook her head, a cheeky grin on her face.

"Do you wanna know my name?"

Again, Carla shook her head.

"Fair enough," he laughed.

"What are you still doing here, anyway," Carla glared at him. "Don't you have a job or summat to go to?"

"I'm on shore leave."

"Shore leave?"

"Yeah, I'm in the navy."

"Oh. So... what? You're bored, so you've made it your mission to spend the day annoying me?"

"Is it working?"

"Possibly… What's next then? In your grand plan?"

"I dunno, maybe a meal?" He looked at her hopefully but saw only a fleeting look of panic cross her face. "My treat of course."

"I'm not a charity case!"

"I wasn't suggesting anything fancy, you understand. Down the chippie, a battered sausage, piece of cod if you're lucky."

She stared at him, trying to figure him out, what he wanted from her. She decided she needed more time.

"Go on then."

* * *

"You're kidding me, right?" Carla stared incredulously at her dinner date as they sat on a park bench munching on hot chips. "Crocodiles really swim at the beaches there?"

"Yeah, absolutely! They're all over the top end of Australia. Don't even get me started on the sharks. Ironically, we went to Darwin right after we'd been to Japan."

"Why's that ironic?" Carla asked, confused.

"Well, because the Japanese focused their attacks on Australia during World War 2 on the city of Darwin."

"I didn't know that."

"If I recall, I think it was over fifty times they bombed the place."

"To be honest, I didn't really pay that much attention in history class," Carla confessed. "When I think about Australia, I think about Sydney. Have you been there?"

"A couple of times."

"So, you saw the Opera House? And the harbour bridge?"

"Sure did."

"You're so lucky to have seen so many beautiful places. I wish I could travel and visit them all."

"It's true, I've seen a lot of beautiful things but, there's beautiful things here in Manchester as well."

He looked at her intensely, gazing into those exquisite eyes of hers. Embarrassed, Carla lowered her eyes, causing her eyelashes to cast intoxicating shadows over her cheeks. And then she did it; she bit her lower lip. He couldn't resist; he leaned over and kissed her, ever so softly, on the lips.

He tore himself away from her, breaking their lip contact, but stayed close to her, so that she could still feel his breath on her cheek. He looked into her eyes, trying to gauge her reaction. She stared back at him and, before she could stop and think what she was doing, reached her hand up to the back of his head and ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him back towards her, his lips back to her lips.

* * *

Carla stood staring at her own reflection in the mirror of the hotel bathroom, thinking about the man who was waiting for her in the room next door. Because that is what he was; a man. He was nothing like the boys from the estate, nothing like anyone she'd ever met before.

And she wanted him; she wanted her first time to be with him. She'd fooled around with boys before; done 'stuff' with them, but she'd never gone all the way. She couldn't admit to this man that she was a virgin. No, she would have to pretend and hope that he didn't guess the truth.

* * *

"Hey," he greeted her from where he was reclining on the bed, a glass of whisky in his hand.

Carla smiled at him nervously.

"Are you alright?"

Carla forced herself to smile, to put on a mask of confidence.

"I'm fine, I'm great."

"Come here," he patted the bed next to him; Carla obediently sat where he instructed and twisted her body to face his.

"Do you want some?" He held up the half-empty whisky bottle.

Carla hesitated; she thought back to earlier that day, the sight of her mother slumped on the sofa in a drunken stupor.

"You are old enough, aren't you?"

A moment of panic swept over Carla; she wanted this, she knew that, and the last thing she wanted to do was scare him off. Learning she was only 16, she mused, would definitely scare him off.

"Yeah, of course I am. I'm eighteen."

"So, you'll have a drink with me?"

"I will," Carla accepted his offer. "Thanks."

Carla accepted the proffered whisky and quickly gulped it down, shuddering as the fiery liquid coursed down her throat. He followed suit and, after placing both of their empty glasses on the bedside table, turned his attention to her.

* * *

She stared up at him, at his face, those soft brown eyes. Kind eyes, she thought. Down his body, at the tattoos on his arms and his chest, down, down, to his penis. This wasn't the first penis she'd seen, or touched, but it was definitely the first one she wanted inside her.

He stared down at her, at her chest as her breaths came in great gulps of air as her excitement grew, at her breasts as they jiggled slightly with the movement, mesmerising him, enticing him.

He leaned down and kissed her breasts, losing himself in her softness, his tongue gliding over her smooth skin, until he reached her nipples. He kissed her nipples, licked her nipples, sucked on them a little, before biting them gently.

"Oh!" Carla gasped, feeling her nipples, aroused by his tongue and his teeth, become erect, like little pebbles on the crest of two fleshy mountains.

He planted a series of kisses all over her breasts and down over her tummy, and the top of her thighs, the inside of her thighs, the outside of her pussy. He extended his tongue and licked her, from her vagina up and over her clit. He moved his tongue over her clit; again and again. And around and over and fluttering fast over it while she squealed in delight, her clit now pulsating with desire.

As his hands glided up her body, up her legs and over her thighs, over her tummy and her breasts, he moved up and kissed her on the lips, extending his tongue gently into her mouth, her tongue responding, wrestling with his tongue, gliding over his teeth, sucking gently on his lips, tasting herself on him.

He looked her in the eyes as he gripped his cock in his hand and gently guided himself inside her, penetrating her fully, sheathing his penis deep inside her vagina. But, as he ground his hips into hers, he was surprised by the shock he saw reflected in her eyes.

The pain she felt as his cock penetrated her, the first time she had been penetrated by anyone, was almost too much for her to bear. She blinked back the tears that sprang automatically into her eyes, before closing her eyes, not wanting him to see her pain.

He pulled himself gently out of her, afraid he had hurt her.

"Are you okay?"

She opened her eyes and gazed up at him; she saw the concern in his eyes and wanted to allay his fears. She smiled at him and nodded; she was okay.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

She was sure; she wanted him, wanted all of him. She reached up and, wrapping her hands gently around his head, pulled his face towards hers, and kissed him; kissed him deeply, passionately, leaving him in no doubt as to what she wanted. Desperate to feel him inside her again, she wrapped her legs around his body and pulled his hips into hers, his penis back into her vagina.

Slowly he pushed fully into her before gliding smoothly out, then in and out, ever so gently, in a steady rhythm, while she got used to this new feeling. She couldn't lie, the pain was still there but, with every gentle thrust, it began to fade. Soon she began to meet his thrusts; as he bore down on her, she propelled her pelvis up to meet him, hungry to be filled up by his throbbing cock.

He gazed down at her in wonder as he gently fucked her.

He'd never met someone at once so prickly and aggressive yet so sweet and vulnerable. And he'd never had such gentle sex, such 'normal' sex, become something that excited him more than any adventurous or athletic sex he'd ever had in the past. There was something about this girl; this girl that was looking up at him with such longing and pain in her eyes, something he'd never forget.

* * *

Carla lay amidst the tangled sheets, her arm draped over his chest, her leg over his, snuggled close to his body; his arm wrapped around her shoulder, holding her close.

"When are you heading back to base?"

"Tomorrow."

"Right… Hey, is it true what they say about sailors?"

"What do they say?"

"They've got a girl in every port?"

"I don't kiss and tell."

"Spoil sport."

"Would it bother you if I had?"

"Nothing to do with me."

He couldn't help but be disappointed. He wanted her to be bothered, to feel jealous at the thought of him with other women.

"I should get going," Carla reluctantly began to disentangle herself from his embrace.

"You don't have to," he tried not to sound too desperate. "You can stay the night."

"I got things to do," Carla explained, before kissing him softly, tenderly; a final goodbye. "Thank you."

Scrambling out of bed, she started to gather her clothes from where they'd been discarded on the floor. She glanced back at the bed, back at him; he was watching her intently, and continued watching her as she dressed herself, the colour rising in her cheeks under his watchful gaze.

Finally, she picked up his leather jacket and placed it on the end of the bed.

"Take it," he instructed her.

"I can't, it's too nice, too expensive."

"You'll be cold without it."

She looked at it hesitantly.

"Go on, you can give it back to me next time I see you."

Carla picked up the jacket and put it on; she smiled her thanks and turned to leave.

"Hey!" He called after her. "Aren't you gonna tell me your name?"

"Carla."

"Carla." He let the name roll off his tongue, savouring it, searing it into his memory.

She looked at him questioningly; she wanted to know his name.

"Peter."

With a smile, Carla turned and left the room.

* * *

_16 years later…_

Two Street Cars cabs pulled up outside Michelle Connor's Weatherfield flat; one-by-one the Connor clan emerged, fresh from burying one of their own in Ireland.

"You'll both stay for a few days, won't you, Car?" Michelle looked at her best friend, her bereaved sister-in-law, with concern.

Carla glanced at Emily who nodded, almost imperceptibly; it was enough for her mother to understand.

"Yeah, if that's okay with you?"

"Of course."

"I don't think either of us can face the flat just yet."

"Liam?" Michelle turned to her one remaining brother. "You gonna come in for a brew?"

"A quick one, yeah."

* * *

Fifteen-year-old Emily sat, cup of tea in her hand, in the living room of her Aunty Chelle's flat. She stared down at the tea with a sickening feeling; the amount of tea she'd forced down over the past week had been excruciating. As if tea could heal her heart, broken into a million pieces the moment her mum had told her the news that her dad was dead, his car smashed into a truck.

She looked across at her mum and thought how brave she was; brave and beautiful. She knew what people around here said about her mum; that she was a hard-faced cow, an ice queen, a straight-up bitch. But Emily knew better. She also knew what they said about her; that she took after her mum, and not just in looks. They meant it as an insult, but she wore it like a badge of honour.

Everyone was so quiet. They'd hardly ever been apart while they'd been in Ireland burying her dad; Emily didn't wonder that they'd finally run out of things to say to each other. She wished they would all leave, go back to their lives, give her some time on her own. But no, here they all were, still together, still drinking bloody tea!

Carla also looked around Chelle's living room at the family Connor; all so cosy, so together, just like in Ireland. She'd had enough of it; everyone talking about Paul, about what a wonderful son he was, what a wonderful brother. Looking to her to say what a wonderful husband he was. But she couldn't. Even before the revelation of his habit of paying strangers for sex, he'd still been a moody, selfish pillock. But she smiled and nodded along, biting her tongue, not for the sake of Paul's parents; no, they'd always thought Paul was too good for her. She stayed silent for her daughter, Emily. No matter how bad a husband Paul had been to her, no matter how much he had hurt her, he had always been a loving and dedicated father to Emily. She wasn't about to destroy her daughter's memory of him.

"I'm going to the pub," Carla suddenly declared. "I need a drink."

"I'll come with you," Liam offered.

* * *

Carla and Liam walked in silence for the majority of their short journey to the Rovers.

"I was gonna ask how you're feeling," Liam broke the silence. "But I reckon you're pretty sick of the question by now?"

"I always knew you were the smart one, Liam." Carla smiled at him sadly. "Honestly, the next person who asks me is risking a fat lip."

Carla's phone began to ring as they were about to enter the pub; her heart sank as she saw the caller I.D.

"It's your mum."

"Do you want me to talk to her?" Liam asked.

"No, it's okay. Go in and get me a drink in, yeah?"

"Red wine?"

"Large."

"Hello Helen," Carla rolled her eyes at Liam as she greeted her mother-in-law; he grinned back at her before entering the pub, knowing how desperately she would need a drink once she'd finished with the phone call.

"Yes, we got back home safe and sound…Yes…Please thank them for me…Very comforting, yes…Thank you cards? Is that really the done thing?...Whatever you think's best. Listen, Helen, I need to go, Emily needs me…I will…Any time…Bye…Bye."

Carla breathed a sigh of relief as she ended the call before turning to the Rovers entrance, eager to get a drink inside her pronto.

"Sorry," Carla apologised; in her haste, she had almost crashed into another newcomer to the pub.

"Carla?"

Carla looked up at the man for the first time.

"Peter."

Sixteen years. Sixteen years! Memories of that one night in '91 came flooding back into her mind; the night that would change her life forever; the man that would change her life forever.

Peter couldn't believe it had been sixteen years. How had she not aged in sixteen years? She was every bit as gorgeous as she had been sixteen years ago; more so, because back then, even at 18, she had been a mere girl; but now she was a woman. As she stared up at him, she bit her lower lip, an old habit she'd never managed to shake. It almost took his breath away, the power she still had over him.

"What are you doing here?" She was the first to regain control of her speech.

"I, umm… me dad lives next door."

"What? Here? Is your dad Ken? Ken Barlow?"

"Yeah."

"So that makes you… Peter Barlow?"

"And you would be Carla…?"

"Connor. Carla Connor."

Connor. Peter tried to remember what Deirdre had been telling him about the Connors. The Connors that owned the factory. How one of them had been killed. A car crash or something. Left behind a wife and a daughter.

"Mum!"

Carla and Peter both turned to watch Emily stride across the cobbles.

"I need some money."

"What for?"

"I'm going into town with my friends."

"Oh, sweetheart, are you sure you're feeling up to it?"

"Mum, seriously, I've been stuck with family all week in Ireland and, no offense, but you're all driving me mad! I need to get away from you lot for a while."

"Okay," Carla tucked a stray hair of Emily's behind her ear affectionately. "Don't be late."

"Yes, mum."

While Carla rummaged in her purse for some cash, Emily smiled awkwardly at Peter. She wondered who this strange man was; she hadn't seen him on the street before, but he obviously knew her mum.

Peter stared back at Emily, transfixed by her startling likeness to Carla; the hair, the bone structure, the lips, they were all the same. Except the eyes. Peter couldn't escape those eyes; looking into this girl's eyes was like looking into a mirror with his own eyes staring back at him.

Dates and numbers started flying through Peter's head. It couldn't be, she couldn't be, could she? When was it? 1991. It was 2007 now. That would make her 16 minus 9 months. 15. She would be 15. He stared at the girl, wondering how old she was. He silently cursed teenage girls for their overuse of makeup; it made it impossible to correctly guess their age.

"There you go."

"Thanks, mum." Emily snatched the twenty-pound note from her mum's hand and kissed her on the cheek before hurrying away.

Carla didn't look back at Peter straight away, fearful of what he might have figured out.

"Carla?"

Finally, she looked at him; he looked back at her and saw the look in her eyes, he saw the truth. He didn't need to ask the question, he already had the answer. But someone had to say something.

"Is there something you need to tell me?"


	2. Chapter 2: The leather jacket

**Chapter 2: The leather jacket**

The force of the blow sent Carla reeling; falling as if in slow motion backwards and crashing to the ground. For the longest time, all Carla could do was lie there, her cheek stinging with the pain of where George had struck her, her breath coming in short, angry pants.

She felt her belly; her skin was stretched tightly across the expansive space where her unborn baby was, she silently prayed to God, safe and well-protected inside her. She rubbed her bump gently, waiting for a sign. And then there it was, her baby girl kicking, pushing against her warm cocoon, letting her mum know she was there; she was okay.

With a sigh of relief, Carla turned her attention to her next problem; escaping the house. She'd had enough; she'd decided she would take no more. No more of George threatening her, controlling her and beating her, but most of all, no more of fearing for her daughter's life. She was leaving once and for all.

She'd had her bag packed, but George wasn't about to let her go; not after putting up with her pregnancy for almost nine months now; not when the finish line was in sight. No, George had his eye on Carla's benefits that would kick in once the baby was born, yet another way of controlling her.

Carla struggled, first to her hands and knees, and then, with a mighty effort, and pushing with all her strength away from the ground, she rose to her feet, swaying slightly, both from carrying such a heavy weight in her belly and the lingering dizziness from the back-hander she'd just received. She picked up her bag and turned to face George.

"Get out of my way," Carla demanded coldly.

George laughed; an evil laugh, Carla thought. He'd have to be evil to do the things he did to her, to Rob, to her mum. Even though her mum didn't seem to care what George put her through; it was almost like she enjoyed it, like it proved to her that George cared for her.

Carla had known there would be no point in appealing to her mum for help or protection; Sharon did whatever George told her to do; George was god. It was up to Carla to take action.

But, for all of Carla's bravado, she was frightened; the only way out was through the front door, the door that was being blocked by George. And, although the man was pudgy, with beady eyes like pin pricks in his swollen face, he wasn't soft; he had strength in his body. More than enough strength to keep her prisoner.

"What's going on?"

With a sinking feeling, Carla recognised her brother's voice. The last thing she wanted was to get him involved, not when he would have to stay here living with that monster after she'd left.

"Nothing, Rob." Carla spoke as calmly as she could. "Go back to your room."

"Carla, you're bleeding!"

"I'm fine."

"Did he do this?"

"Rob, please," Carla pleaded with her brother, but it was too late, Rob had squared up to George, who had watched the sibling exchange with amusement.

"You think you're a big man, don't you!?" Rob yelled at George; despite the difference in their sizes, not quite David and Goliath, but by no means an even physical match, Rob was prepared to take him on. "But you're a weak, pathetic waste of space! Picking on a pregnant teenager! You're disgusting!"

"Enough." George spoke low; he was deathly calm.

"You don't scare me."

Rob held his ground; he knew this was Carla's only chance to escape. He was willing to sacrifice himself for her; to endure one of George's beatings if he knew she would be safe.

* * *

Carla squeezed her eyes shut, desperately trying to erase the last image she had of her brother from her mind. She had watched as he lay on the floor of their living room, bleeding and bruised; George had pummelled him repeatedly with his fists, kicked him, spat on him. She saw him as he looked at her intently, as he silently pleaded with her to leave. So she had left; she had left him to receive the beating that was meant for her.

Opening her eyes, Carla knocked on the door in front of her. It was only now that she had pushed the horrific scenes from her mind, that she realised all was not well in this household either. The sounds of shouting became clearer as the occupants made their way to the front door. Carla almost ran from the house, fearful of the reception she was about to receive, but the front door was opened before she could move.

"What do you want?" Helen Connor glared at Carla, her hatred of her daughter's best friend had never been more obvious.

"Is Michelle in?"

"If you think I'm letting you anywhere near my daughter after –"

"Mum!" Michelle stormed into the vestibule, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Get back inside!"

"No!" Michelle screamed at her mother. "Carla's staying here."

"Over my dead body! That girl is no good for you; she's a bad influence."

"Hello," Carla couldn't restrain her sarcasm. "I'm standing right here."

"Don't you dare!" Helen rounded on Carla. "You come round here with your easy ways –"

"Easy? What are you –"

"Just because the estate slapper here gets herself up the duff," Helen turned to her daughter. "You don't have to follow her example."

"Mum, you're being ridiculous!"

"Am I? Is it just a coincidence that you wind up pregnant right after her? You always wanted to copy everything she did!"

"Chelle?" Carla tried to ignore Helen and speak directly to her best friend. "Are you… pregnant?"

Michelle nodded tearfully.

"Come here."

Michelle gratefully stepped into Carla's loving embrace, where she promptly dissolved into sobs on her shoulder.

"How's Dean?" Carla whispered to Michelle.

"He's been great, Car. Amazing."

"Good." Carla wiped the tears from Michelle's cheeks. "Dry those eyes, yeah? It's gonna be just fine."

"Is it?"

"Of course it is. You've got Dean, haven't you? And you got me."

"Thanks, Car."

"Now do you mind?" Helen was desperate to get rid of Carla. "We've got family business to talk about."

"I'm sorry, Car."

"It's okay. I'll find somewhere else."

Carla turned and walked away from the Connor house.

"Carla! Wait!"

Carla looked back; Michelle was running down the path after her.

"Maybe you can wait until they've all gone to bed and then sneak in. You can sleep with me in my bed. They'll never know."

"No, Chelle, I can't ask you to go against your family."

"But where will you go?"

"I don't know. But I don't want you to worry about me, okay?"

"What about that place? You know, the one on Elm Grove."

"No."

"Where else are you gonna go?"

"I'm not going there, Chelle. I'm not one of them."

"Are you sure about that?"

* * *

Carla sat on a bench in, she wouldn't call it a park, it was more a wedge of patchy yellow grass barely covering the sand pit beneath.

Darkness had descended over the estate; and with the darkness came the bitter cold. She pulled her leather jacket tight around her body in an effort to stay warm.

For now, Carla felt reasonably safe; she'd walked the streets of her estate after dark many times before, but she knew that, after midnight, it would no longer be safe for her.

Once again, she placed her hand on her bump, waiting for a sign, and felt her baby wriggle and squirm inside.

"Alright, baby girl. I'll go."

* * *

Carla stood facing the mysterious imposing detached house on Elm Grove. There were no signs, no indication of what was inside, but everyone knew what it was for. Just like everyone knew why there was a high wall out front, security grilles on the windows, a reinforced door, an intercom and a security camera system. It was all there to make the women living inside the house feel safe.

Now Carla was one of those women.

* * *

"It's all we've got for tonight." The woman who'd answered the door when Carla had rung the bell had shown her into a darkened room that was simply furnished with four single beds, each with a bedside table and small wardrobe. She switched on the bedside lamp next to the only empty bed in the room. "We'll talk in the morning, see what we can do for you."

Carla stared with growing dread at the other three beds, at the three sleeping women. She couldn't help but let a tear slip down her face.

"Try not to worry, you're safe here."

Once the woman had left her, Carla sat on the bed and stared around at her new roommates, her new friends. Being careful not to wake the other women, Carla quietly opened her bag and pulled out a pair of pyjamas before quickly changing into them.

Slipping under the covers of the bed, Carla listened anxiously to the unfamiliar sounds that surrounded her; the sounds, not of a home, but an institution, a place where only desperate people came.

She reached under the bed and dragged her leather jacket up onto the bed with her. She hugged it close to her chest and, burying her face in its familiar warmth, let the floodgates open and cried herself to sleep.

* * *

"Well?" Peter questioned Carla impatiently. "Are you gonna tell me?"

"Let's go inside, yeah, get a drink."

"I don't want a drink, I want you to tell me what's going on!"

"I'm not doing this on the doorstep of my local! Now come inside."

Peter had little choice but to follow Carla inside the Rovers.

"A red wine please, Liz. And whatever Peter's having."

"Whisky. Better make it a double, I think I'm gonna need it."

As Carla scanned the room to find a quiet spot to talk, Liam waved to her from where he was seated, a pint and a large glass of red on the table in front of him.

"Carla!"

But Carla ignored him and made a beeline for a recently vacated booth; she and Peter sat down, facing each other, with more than a little awkwardness, for their first proper conversation in sixteen years.

"Hey!" Liam suddenly appeared at the side of the table. "I got you a drink."

"Oh, Liam," Carla said apologetically. "I'm sorry, I need to, umm…"

She glanced across at Peter then back up at Liam, willing him to understand that she needed privacy without the necessary explanations. Liam merely looked at this man, known only to him by sight as one of the Barlow clan, and then back at Carla in confusion. "What's going on?"

"I'll tell you later. Can you just…" Carla motioned for him to leave. "Give us some space, okay?"

"Carla, if he's bothering you –"

"Liam!" Carla's tone was final.

Liam, more than familiar with this particular Carla tone, having been on the receiving end of it many times over the years, beat a hasty retreat. He swaggered back to his table where he kept watch over a conversation between two people he thought a most unlikely pair of confidantes.

But conversation seemed far from both Carla and Peter's minds as they stared at each other across the table, each of them thinking back to that day 16 years ago; how, for a few hours at least, their whole world revolved only around each other.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again." Peter was the first to break the impasse. "I mean, I'd hoped, but…"

"It wasn't much to go on, was it? Peter from the navy."

"Not enough to put on a birth certificate."

"I don't know which would've been more shameful; 'Randy sailor on shore leave', or 'Father unknown'. I opted for the latter."

"If I'd known…"

"What would you have done? Seriously? Would you have taken me home to your family? 'Hey folks, here's some random sixteen-year-old I got up the stick'!?"

"What did you say?"

"What?"

"You said sixteen-year-old. You told me you were eighteen."

"Oh… I, umm… I lied."

"Why?"

"Honestly?"

"If you don't mind!"

"I didn't think you'd go through with it if you knew my real age."

"And you would've been right! I was twenty six, Carla. Going with a sixteen-year-old when you're twenty six is a little… it's not right."

"You didn't enjoy it?"

"That's not what I'm saying. Not at all. Fact is, I've never forgotten that day."

"Me either," Carla stared at him, deep into those soft brown eyes and, for a moment, forgot herself. Until she remembered what she was there for. "It's hard to forget when you've got the evidence growing inside you."

"What's her name?"

"Emily."

"Emily." Peter smiled to himself as he thought about the girl he'd seen on the steps of the Rovers for that briefest moment of time not more than an hour ago. 'My daughter, Emily,' he imagined himself introducing her to his family, his friends.

"Emily Connor."

"Connor?"

"She was born Donovan but we changed it to Connor when I got married."

"So, he…?"

"He adopted her. Legally she's his daughter."

"Right."

"I'm not saying this to hurt you, you understand. The fact is, he was the one who raised her. He loved her and she loved him."

"Does she know that he, I'm sorry, what was his name?"

"Paul."

"Does Emily know that Paul wasn't her real father?"

"Of course. Me and Paul didn't get together until Emily was four."

"What have you told her about me?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I couldn't exactly tell her the truth, could I? 'Hey, honey, I met your dad on the street and a couple of hours later went to bed with him.' Look, I don't regret what we did. Not then and especially not now that I've got this amazing, beautiful, kind daughter in my life. But telling her how she was conceived… she doesn't need to know that."

"So what now?"

"Now?" Carla was incredulous; did he really expect to be welcomed into her daughter's life with open arms? Just like that? "Now nothing."

"But…"

"What are you expecting, Peter? An hour ago you didn't know she existed. Now what? You want some tearful reunion? To be welcomed into the family?"

"Well, I know it'll take some time to get used to –"

"She has– she had a father, okay? The only father she's ever known. This isn't the right time to be springing a new one on her."

"Is it just the timing that you object to?"

Carla sighed. Her life would've been so much simpler if she hadn't bumped into Peter that afternoon. But, as complicated as his presence in her daughter's life, not to mention her own life, would no doubt become, she couldn't help but feel happy at the thought that the mysterious stranger she had spent that unforgettable afternoon with all those years ago was back. And it seemed like he wanted to stay.

Momentarily distracted by the sight of Michelle entering the Rovers, throwing her an inquisitive look as she walked past the booth and joining her brother at the far table, Carla didn't answer Peter right away.

"Carla?"

"Sorry," Carla apologised, focusing her attention back onto Peter. "Yes, it's the timing. Absolutely. Give her some time to grieve for her dad properly and then I'll sit her down and tell her the truth."

"I'd like to be there when you tell her."

"We can discuss that later. Right now, I need you to promise me that you won't say anything until I'm ready. Until she's ready."

Peter stared across at Carla and wondered if he could really keep this a secret. He already felt like he was about to burst with the news; Carla could take months to decide when Emily was ready. How could he cope with that? But, looking across at Carla, seeing the pleading in her eyes, his resolve melted; he would do whatever she asked.

"I promise, I'll keep quiet for now. But, Carla, I won't wait forever."

* * *

Peter fell back onto the brick wall outside the Rovers; how could his life have changed so completely in the space of an hour? An hour ago, all he was hoping was to run into that cute hairdresser from Audrey's in the Rovers, have a few drinks and a bit of flirty banter. But then he saw her; Carla. He'd recognised her immediately; her face had become ingrained so deeply in his brain over the years, he would have recognised her anywhere.

Even though he had wanted to shake her for not finding him when she learned she was pregnant, the mere sight of her, the way she tossed that mane of glossy black hair, the way she pursed her lips, those plump, kissable lips, the way her eyes flashed when she was determined to get her own way, the way she held her head, so haughty, so proud, only served to remind him of that night; of slowly stripping away her clothes, of kissing every inch of her body, of making love to her. And then of missing her once she was gone. He hadn't understood why at the time; why he would miss this girl he'd known for only a few hours. He'd never missed any of the women he'd been with on shore leave; and there had been many. He wondered if somehow he had subconsciously known their paths would cross again; no, more than that, that their lives would become so indubitably intertwined.

He'd be lying if he pretended he wasn't petrified at the thought of being a father; especially a father to a seemingly headstrong teenage daughter. But, at the same time, he was excited. Excited to have someone to love, to focus his life and his energies on. Maybe he'd have two people to love. He daren't hope for too much too soon.

All he had to do now was to be patient; to wait for the right time. He didn't know if he was capable of being patient, he never had been in the past. And right now, all he wanted to do was scream the truth to the world.

With his mind and his heart in such a state of turmoil, Peter entered his father's house and sank down onto one of the dining chairs in the kitchen with a sigh.

"Are you alright, Peter?" Ken quizzed his son with hardly a glance up from the Guardian newspaper he was studying. But, when Peter didn't respond, he laid the paper down and looked up at his son. "Peter?"

"What do you know about the Connors?"

"I don't know much about them at all. Deirdre?"

"What is it, Ken?" Deirdre spoke with only a fraction of her attention dedicated to her husband; the majority of her attention was focused on the marrow she was preparing to stuff.

"The Connors. What do you know about them?"

"The Connors?" Deirdre wandered to the kitchen table and sat down, lighting a cigarette to aid in her thought process. "There's three of them, siblings, isn't that right?"

"You're telling the story, Deirdre."

"Okay okay! Well, there's Michelle who works in the Rovers, she's seeing Steve McDonald you know. And then there's her two brothers, Liam and Paul, they're the ones who took over the factory."

"What about Carla?"

"Oh, she's the wife of Paul, the brother who died. She's been working out of the factory as well by all accounts, got some fancy designer clothing line or summat being made there."

"And Emily?"

"That's the daughter."

"But what are they like? As people?"

"She's a cold fish, that one." Blanche piped up from her prime television watching vantage point on the sofa. "Turn you to ice soon as look at you."

"Which one, Blanche?" Peter turned to look at Blanche.

"That hoity-toity one from the factory. The widow. Carla! And that girl of hers is no better, from what I hear. Her mother's daughter alright."

"Is this true, Deirdre?"

"How would she know!" Blanche wasn't finished with her character assassination. "Those Connors wouldn't lower themselves to associate with the likes of us."

"Well, yes, we're not exactly in the same social circle," Deirdre admitted cautiously. "But I'm sure they're lovely when you get to know them. Although, from what the girls at the factory say…"

"What do they say?"

"Hard-faced cow may have come out of Janice's mouth once or twice."

"Why are you asking, Peter?" Ken asked. "I wasn't aware you knew them."

"I know Carla. Well, I don't really know her at all. I met her. Once. Sixteen years ago."

Ken's face remained blank; he didn't understand.

"Do the maths, dad."

Suddenly it dawned on Ken what Peter was trying to tell him.

"Oh, so…? Emily?"

"She's mine," Peter couldn't help but proudly claim Emily for what she was. "She's my daughter."

"That mouthy slip of a girl is your offspring?" Blanche reacted. "I've heard it all now."

"Yes, Blanche. She is. And I'd appreciate it if you could stop bad-mouthing her."

"Well, excuse me."

"But, Peter, I don't understand." Ken's brow furrowed. "Why haven't you said anything before now?"

"I only just found out. Just now. But you can't say anything. To anyone, okay? Carla doesn't want Emily to know."

"But you're her father, Peter!" Ken was outraged on his son's behalf. "You've got rights."

"It's just for now. She's only recently lost her dad." Peter saw the look on Ken's face. "He did bring her up, dad. He's got every right to that title. Legally as well since he adopted her."

"It must've been a big shock for you."

"Thank you, dad, yes, it was. I could do with a drink if you don't mind."

Retrieving a bottle of whisky and a cut-glass tumbler from the sideboard, Ken poured Peter a shot of whisky. Peter reached for the glass and downed the fiery amber liquid with a single gulp. He pushed the glass back towards Ken, signalling his desire for another drink. Ken obliged, pouring him a double measure this time.

* * *

Carla dropped her head to her hands; left alone in the booth after Peter's departure, she gave herself a minute of reflection before the expected onslaught of questions from her brother- and sister-in-law.

"Hey," Michelle asked in a gentle voice, her hand outstretched to stroke Carla's forearm. "Are you okay?"

Carla looked up at Michelle in an agony of indecision; how much should she tell?

"Can we go somewhere, Chelle? To talk?"

"Yeah, of course. We can go out to the back room. Shall I get Liam?"

"No!" Carla was adamant.

* * *

"This has obviously got something to do with Peter Barlow?" Michelle ventured an observation once she and Carla were established on the sofa's in the back room of the Rovers, a glass of wine each in their hands.

"Yep." Carla sighed loudly; Michelle knew her best friend well enough to know that whatever Carla was about to reveal, it was gonna be big.

"How do you know him? He's not your usual drinking buddy."

"Chelle, he's Emily's dad," Carla blurted out the truth. "Her biological dad."

"Wow!" Michelle was shocked. "I was not expecting that. How?"

"How do you think?"

"Sorry, of course. I meant… how?"

"It just happened one day. I'd had a row with mum and I took off in a mood."

"Nothing unusual there."

"I ran into this guy, like literally ran into him."

"And that was Peter?"

"Yeah. We got talking and one thing led to another…"

"Carla!"

"No! Chelle, you got pregnant at the same age as me so you can save your judgement thank you very much."

"Why didn't you tell him before now?"

"I knew his name, his first name only, and that he was in the navy. Until I bumped into him today I thought I'd never see him again."

"Peter Barlow though? Doesn't seem your type."

"What do you know about him?"

"Not much. You do know his sister's that Tracy who's banged up?"

"You mean the one who…" Carla mimed whacking someone over the head with a heavy object. "…did away with her boyfriend?"

"Yep!" Michelle's eyebrows rose so high they almost melted into her hair. "Nice family you've just joined."

"Oh, Chelle, don't!"

"Actually, I do remember hearing something particularly juicy about Peter."

"What?" Carla leaned forward eagerly.

"A bit of a reputation with the ladies."

"Oh," Carla didn't look too pleased with this information. "You mean he fools around?"

"So much so, he was married to two women at the same time."

"You mean… he's a… bigamist?"

"That's what I heard."

"It's his life, I guess…"

"Are you gonna tell Emily?"

"I suppose she'll have to be told eventually."

"Eventually?"

"She's too fragile at the moment, you know, after everything with Paul. It's all too raw for her."

"For all of us."

"I know." Carla reached out and held Michelle's hand lovingly. "I just hope he keeps his word and doesn't tell her before I'm ready."

"Maybe go round and see him tomorrow, make sure he understands."

"Yeah, maybe."

"So…" Michelle decided to change tack. "What was it like seeing him again after so many years? Do you still fancy him?"

"Michelle! I just buried my husband! Your brother, remember? I'm not about to jump into bed with someone else straight away, am I?"

"I'm not asking you to jump into bed with him, I'm just… canvassing opinion."

"Hmm… Look, I'm not gonna lie, he's pretty fit. And his eyes, Chelle. Have you looked into his eyes? I dunno what it is, they do something to me. It's not natural, I tell ya."

* * *

Peter had to escape the gossip inside No. 1, so he fled to the front doorstep to smoke a cigarette in peace.

He had almost instantly regretted telling his family the news about Emily, about the new addition to the Barlow clan. Blanche and Deirdre had delighted in recounting every piece of gossip about the Connors since their arrival on the cobbles late last year. But Peter couldn't believe what they were saying about Carla and Emily; he wouldn't believe it. He knew from the moment he met Carla that she had an attitude that would certainly rub people up the wrong way. But once you got to know her, she was different; generous, kind and funny.

The sound of heeled boots click-clacking on the cobbles of Coronation Street was the first sign Peter had of someone approaching. He peered into the darkness; his heart began to race when he saw Emily, his daughter, striding towards him. She had almost passed him before he managed to croak out a greeting.

"Hey."

But Emily ignored him and kept walking.

"Good night?" Now that Peter had found his voice, he was undeterred by her frostiness.

His question had the desired effect; Emily stopped in her tracks and turned to face Peter. But the filthy look she shot in his direction momentarily dampened his confidence.

"What's it to you?"

"Just being friendly."

Emily took a few slow, deliberate steps towards him, looking him directly in the eye.

"You were with my mum earlier." Not so much a question from Emily as an accusation. "Do you know her?"

"You could say that."

"Whatever." Emily rolled her eyes and turned to walk away; she wasn't about to encourage this guy in whatever game he was playing.

"Nice jacket."

Emily stopped in her tracks and looked back at Peter.

"What did you say?"

"I said, I like your jacket."

"Thanks." Instead of walking away, an unknown something that Emily didn't comprehend prompted her to speak frankly. "It was my dad's."

"He died recently?"

"Not him. My real dad. It was his jacket." Emily silently chastised herself for telling this strange man such personal things; nevertheless, she couldn't stop. "I never met him."

"I'm sorry."

"It was the only thing of his my mum had. She said he was kind. Gave it to her to wear when she was cold." Suddenly Emily laughed, struck by her own foolishness. "I dunno why I'm telling you this, I don't even know you."

"Sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger."

"Maybe…" Emily wondered if this was true; she'd never felt the compulsion to reveal her feelings to strangers before. But there was something about this man she couldn't explain. "Sometimes I imagine I can smell him on it. Which is ridiculous, I mean, it's been sixteen years since he's worn it." Emily looked Peter in the eye, ready to find ridicule reflected back at her, but saw only compassion. "Don't laugh, okay, but… wearing this jacket, in a funny kind of way, it makes me feel closer to him. It's the closest I'll get though, I'm never gonna meet him." Emily lost herself in her own thoughts for a moment, thoughts of a man who meant both everything and nothing to her. "I'm sorry, I'm rambling.

"It's okay, I don't mind."

"I better get home. Mum's gonna kill me for being out this late."

"It was nice talking to you."

"Yeah, whatever."

Peter watched Emily as she walked away, hugging his leather jacket close to her. Not just to keep out the biting cold, but to feel close to her father; to _him_.

He hadn't hesitated to give Carla the jacket back in '91; sure, it was an expensive gesture for someone he'd just met, but he wanted her to have it, never imagining he'd ever see it again, let alone see it being worn by someone who, in the space of less than a day, had suddenly become his whole world.


	3. Chapter 3: On the hook

**Chapter 3: On the hook**

Carla stared down at her newborn daughter in wonder. She couldn't believe that she'd created something so perfect, so innocent. The baby girl gazed up at her mum and waved her little arms around in the air. Carla couldn't resist the chubby cuteness; she reached down and gently tickled her daughter's tummy. The infant grabbed a hold of Carla's little finger, her tiny fingers wrapped around it tightly. Carla thrilled at the physical connection, at the perfection of those tiny fingers, the little creases in the skin at the knuckles, the perfectly formed tiny nails.

"Hey."

Carla looked up; her brother Rob had pulled open the curtain that surrounded her hospital bed and was standing aloof, shuffling his feet nervously from side-to-side, glancing at the baby with trepidation.

"Look who's here," Carla spoke to her daughter with that sing-song baby voice she'd sworn she'd never use; that is, until the moment the baby was placed into her arms for the very first time. "Your uncle Rob has come to see you. Yes, he has."

But still Rob didn't approach the bed. He merely stared at the baby as if it were an alien life-form.

"Come on," Carla encouraged him gently. "She won't bite."

Rob took a few tentative steps towards the bed and looked down at his niece. The sight of her, something so pure in a world in which he and Carla had known only chaos and confusion, brought an instinctive smile to his face.

"She's beautiful," Rob gushed.

"I know," Carla agreed proudly.

Rob reached out and stroked the baby's head, already covered with a shock of fine black hair.

"Her hair," he observed with a grin. "She takes after you."

"It kinda weirded me out, you know," Carla confessed. "I thought babies were born bald. Then she comes out like that!"

"What about her dad?" Rob challenged his sister.

"What about him?" Carla was immediately defensive.

"Does she take after him at all?"

"Her eyes," Carla murmured as she gazed down at her daughter. "She's got the same soft brown eyes."

"Does he know?"

"Rob, I don't want to talk about him."

"Why not?" Rob asked, incredulous. "He should be putting his hands in his pockets, helping you out."

"I don't need his help."

"He's got responsibilities, Carla." Rob was determined. "He's a father now. You tell me where to find him and I'll have a word, squeeze some cash outta him."

"Oh, Rob, don't be ridiculous."

"No, Carla, it's not ridiculous. I don't know why you're protecting that scum –"

"Stop it!" Carla cried out in frustration. "The truth is, I don't know where to find him. I don't even know his last name."

Rob laughed, a cold derisive laugh.

"What?" Carla was quickly losing patience with her brother.

"You!" Rob sneered. "You've become such a cliché."

The siblings lapsed into a bitter silence, neither prepared to make the first conciliatory move.

"She got a name then?" Rob finally broke the stalemate as he nodded down at the baby. "This one?"

"Emily."

"Emily Donovan," Rob smiled. "Suits her."

Carla smiled at her brother gratefully. "Shall we get going then?"

"Yeah. Hey," Rob disappeared behind the curtain, returning almost immediately with an expensive-looking pram. "To take her home in."

"Wow," Carla eyed the pram with a mixture of delight and suspicion. "That's a really high-end pram, Rob. How did you –?"

"Garage sale," Rob hastily explained. "Got it cheap."

"It looks new."

"You know what those rich bitches are like, Carla. More money than sense. Buy summat new rather than be seen with last year's model. But, I mean, if you don't want it, I can sell it on, and you can carry her everywhere. I was just trying to do summat nice for me sister, but if you –"

"Oh, shut up, will you." Carla admonished him playfully. "It's lovely, thank you."

* * *

"Did you get everything on the list?" Carla questioned Rob as they sat side-by-side on the bus, Carla's hand gripped firmly on the handle-bar of Emily's new pram.

"Yep."

"The money I gave you, it was enough?"

"Yep."

"Did you go to that second-hand furniture store?"

"Yep."

"Not the one on the high street."

"The other one, yes, I know."

"That high street mob are a rip off."

"I know, Carla," Rob exclaimed in exasperation. "That's why I went to the other place."

"Of course you know, I'm sorry," Carla placated him. "Thank you."

* * *

"Well, this is…" Carla looked around uncertainly at her and her daughter's new home.

A bedsit, one of four in a repurposed old house, furnished with a double-bed, wardrobe, an armchair and a small dining table and two chairs, with Rob's purchases lined up along one side of the room: a cot, a changing table, and a chest of drawers filled with baby clothes and supplies.

"I know it's not much," Rob conceded. "But it's better than... you know."

"I know." Carla smiled reassuringly at Rob; they both knew what life would be like for Carla and Emily if she were still living at home. "It'll do for us, won't it, Emily?"

Carla reached into the pram and picked up Emily, cradling her in her arms. She looked up at Rob and saw him watching them curiously.

"You wanna hold her?"

"Oh, god no!" Rob recoiled in horror at the thought.

"Come on," Carla chivvied him. "Emily wants some uncle Rob cuddles."

"Carla, I don't –"

Despite his protests, Carla carefully placed her daughter into her brother's arms.

"There we go," Carla cooed. "You're a natural."

Rob smiled nervously as he gazed down on his little niece.

"I don't really know what to do with babies."

"What?" Carla laughed. "You think I do? As far as I can make out, if she's hungry, then I feed her, if she messes in her nappy, then I change her. Otherwise, I keep her clean, keep her warm, try not to drop her, and give her lots of cuddles."

"Sounds like you know exactly what you're doing."

"Well, I can't be any worse than what our mum was with us, can I?"

"You're gonna do brilliant, sis."

"Thanks," Carla smiled at him gratefully.

While Rob was fixated on his niece, Carla wandered over to where he had lined up his purchases and looked through them, checking to see if they had everything they needed.

"Umm… Rob…?"

"Yeah, what?" Rob replied, disinterested, his complete focus now on the baby in his arms.

"This stuff, it's…"

"It's great, isn't it?" Rob boasted, proud of his efforts.

"Where'd you get the money from?"

"You gave it me," Rob laughed nervously. "You got baby brain or summat?"

"I didn't give you this much."

"I just wanted you and Emily to have some nice things."

"Where did you get the money?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters!" Carla wouldn't let it go. "Rob? Please be honest with me. I won't judge –"

"I nicked it okay!"

"You what?"

"I stole the money."

"Who from?"

Rob hung his head in shame, unable to meet his sister's gaze.

"Rob!"

Finally, Rob raised his head and looked at Carla, ready to confess the truth.

"George."

"No…" Carla shook her head in dismay.

"I took it from his stash."

"How much?"

"You don't need to worry about it."

"How much!?"

"Five hundred," Rob mumbled under his breath.

"I'm sorry?" Carla's words caught in her throat; she prayed she had misheard him. "What did you say?"

"Five hundred quid!"

Carla stared at Rob in shock; how could he be so stupid to steal so much from their evil step-father's drug-dealing profits.

"You're a fool!" Carla spat at him. "What the hell were you thinking!?"

"A little gratitude wouldn't go astray!"

"Gratitude?" Carla was incredulous. "You stole from George! You know he's gonna make you pay it back, every last penny, and then some!"

"He won't," Rob laughed, a vain attempt to brush off her concerns. "He's family."

"You are kidding yourself!" Carla shook her head in disbelief. "Listen, I'll help you out, okay? Get you out of debt."

"You ain't got owt to spare!"

"I'll find it somehow," Carla vowed.

"It's my debt, Carla. It's nothing to do with you!"

"You don't get it, do you?" Carla appealed to him. "What you've done, Rob, you've played right into George's hands. Do you have any idea what he'll make you do to pay that money back? Soon you'll be in so deep with him, the only way out will be prison or in a coffin! And I'm not gonna let that happen. Not to my little brother."

"I'm sorry," Rob's voice was suddenly small, scared, stripped of its bravado. "I was just trying to help."

"I know," Carla said tearfully. "I know that, I do. And I appreciate it."

She pulled him in for a hug, comforting him as his front came crashing down and he reverted once more into a frightened fourteen-year-old boy.

"We'll sort this out," Carla promised. "I don't want you to worry about it, okay?"

Rob nodded tearfully. "I'm really sorry."

"It's okay," Carla reassured him. "It's gonna be okay."

* * *

Carla paced the floor of her bedsit, Emily grizzling in her arms, and wracked her brains for a solution to her current dilemma. Rob had long since gone, promising to stay out of George's way and let Carla deal with him. She knew there was only one way to tackle the situation. Head on. With complete honesty.

But she kept putting it off. She'd fought so hard to escape from George's clutches and now, in one fell swoop, she was back on the hook. She could've shaken Rob for what he'd done, but he was a kid, he didn't know any better. But she knew. And she would get him out of it. She would rescue him.

"Come on, baby," Carla whispered soothingly to Emily. "We're gonna go for a walk, yeah? You'd like a walk, wouldn't you?"

She gingerly lay Emily down in her pram and draped an extra blanket over her body, tucking her in nice and snug.

Carla gazed down lovingly at her daughter.

"I know what's missing," she observed, walking over to the chest of drawers and rummaging through the baby clothes stored within until she found a tiny pale yellow crocheted hat with a felt mauve flower on the side. She brought it back to the pram and drew it down snugly over Emily's head. "To keep your head warm," she explained, before turning serious. "Now, mummy's gonna need you to be a really good girl, okay? Just for a little bit."

* * *

Carla shivered as she pushed Emily in her pram down the bleak street of the bleak estate, the bitter chill of the northern winter causing her breath to fog as it left her mouth. She stared down at Emily, suddenly panicked at the thought that her daughter might be cold. But she was sleeping soundly, soothed by the motion of the pram as it rumbled along the path.

She stopped outside the corner store and, dropping some loose change into the public phone box that was stationed there, made what felt like the most important and nerve-wracking phone call of her life.

_Brrinng brrinng_

Carla waited nervously as the phone rang, when suddenly–

"Yeah?"

The sound of George's familiar gruff voice down the phone line made Carla's stomach turn. She steeled herself before she dared speak, the last thing she wanted to do was betray any signs of weakness.

"It's Carla," she spoke with a defiance she didn't feel.

"If you think you can come crawling back with your brat, you got another thing coming."

"I'm not coming back," Carla declared adamantly.

"What do you want?"

"I need to talk to you," Carla explained. "In person."

The silence that followed Carla's request lingered for so long that she feared the line had somehow been severed. But George, ever the schemer, was silently weighing up his options.

"What's your address?"

George's attempts at playing the innocent didn't fool Carla; she merely laughed.

"As if I'm gonna tell you where I live. No, we'll meet somewhere public."

* * *

"So." George stared at Carla as they stood face-to-face on the frost-covered football pitch, his gaze at times flickering down to Emily as she slept in her pram. "Why am I here?"

"Rob."

"That thieving scumbag!?" George sneered. "Don't worry, I'll make sure he pays."

"I want you to leave him alone," Carla demanded. "I mean it!"

"That little scrote stole from me! You know I can't let it slide. It's bad for business, sets a bad example. I let Rob off and soon all the trash around here think they can take advantage. No –"

"_I'll_ pay you," Carla advocated. "_I'll_ take on Rob's debt."

George smiled; a sleazy, self-satisfied smile. This little bitch, Carla, who had gone to such great lengths to escape him, was suddenly back on the hook.

"He's not worth it, you know."

"He's my brother."

"Okay. If you insist." George accepted Carla's offer with seeming indifference. He contemplated the new mother, wondering just how far he could push her, before he let the hammer fall. "Fifty quid a week… for a year."

"A year!?" Carla cried in dismay. "Piss off! That's five times as much as he owes!"

"That's the deal," George shrugged, unmoved. "Take it or leave it."

"And if I leave it?"

"Then, as of this moment, I own Rob. He works for me."

Carla agonised over George's terms, but she knew there was only one decision she could make if she wanted to protect her brother.

"Fine," she capitulated. "I'll give you the first instalment a week today."

"Don't be late," George warned with a depraved laugh. "I think you'll find my interest rates are a killer."

Carla quickly turned away from George, desperate to avoid him being witness to the tears that were smarting in her eyes.

"Give your mum a call will you!" George shouted after her retreating frame. "It'd be nice for her to meet her granddaughter."

Carla pushed Emily's pram as fast as she could away from the football pitch, longing for the safety of home, as the tears ran unchecked down her face, oblivious to George as he watched her flight, an evil grin fixed on his broad podgy face.

* * *

"Right," Carla stood, hands on hips, staring down the factory girls…and Sean. "I don't wanna hear another word out of you lot. If we don't make tomorrow's deadline, you'll have plenty of time to gossip down the job centre."

"And if we make the deadline, Mrs Connor?" Sally Webster piped up. "Do we get a bonus?"

"Of course you do, Sal," Carla plastered a fake smile on her face. "You get that warm fuzzy feeling knowing you'll be able to put food on the table next week. Now, back to work!"

Carla turned towards the factory office, disconcerted to spy Liam peering out at her through a crack in the blind. Putting on her best haughty airs, she stalked into the office and sat at her desk without so much as a glance at her brother-in-law.

But the tension-filled silence soon got to her.

"What?" she barked at him.

"You know, Carla," Liam began in a conciliatory tone. "You don't need to be here. This isn't what Paul would've wanted for you."

"Oh?" Carla glared at Liam. "And what exactly is it that you think Paul wanted for me?"

"He wanted to look after you," Liam explained condescendingly. "He wanted to provide for you so you wouldn't have to come out to work."

"Listen, Liam," Carla sighed. "I know you've never liked me. Never liked me and Paul being together. But I was his wife. His next of kin. That means I now own his share of this place. Sixty per cent of it in fact. And if you don't like me being your boss, then you know what you can do."

"This place would fall apart without me," Liam warned.

"I'll take the risk," Carla called his bluff.

"You know, I was his brother," Liam changed tack. "His blood relative. That means more than –"

"But he chose me."

"He chose hookers over you!"

"How dare you!"

_Knock knock_

"What!?" Carla yelled.

The door slowly opened to reveal Peter, a little disconcerted to discover he'd interrupted an argument.

"I'm sorry, I, umm…"

"What do you want?" Carla glanced briefly at Peter before fixing her death stare back on Liam.

"I'm sorry," Peter stammered. "If I'm interrupting something…"

"As a matter of fact," Liam interjected. "You are. So, if you don't mind." Liam motioned to the door behind Peter.

"Liam!" Carla exclaimed indignantly. "Don't be so rude." Ignoring Liam, Carla turned to Peter with a placid smile. "I'm so sorry, Peter. How can I help you?"

"I was hoping to take you out to lunch."

"We're busy," Liam declared sullenly.

"I'd love to," Carla readily accepted, standing abruptly and grabbing her handbag and jacket. "Shall we go?"

"Carla," Liam objected. "We've got McKnees coming in half an hour."

"You deal with it, Liam," Carla said coldly. "I thought you wanted to be in charge?"

Having said her final word on the matter, Carla strode out of the office, her head held just a little too high for Liam's liking, Peter hurrying after her with an apologetic glance back at Liam.

* * *

"So, umm…" Peter was hesitant to appear too curious about Carla's affairs. If he had learned one thing since becoming reacquainted with Carla, it was her reputation for being somewhat volatile. "What was all that about? In the factory?"

"My brother-in-law thinks, now that I'm a widow of means, I should become a lady of leisure," Carla explained. "Give up the factory and let him run it."

"And that doesn't interest you?"

"That's _my_ factory!" Carla scoffed at the suggestion. "He's not pushing me out. No way!" Carla took a deep breath, composing herself. "I don't want to talk about him, okay. Where are you taking me?"

"Not far," Peter teased as he led her along the cobbles.

"You know I'm not really a hot pot kind of girl."

"We're not having hot pot."

"There's nothing decent around here, not within walking distance," Carla asserted.

"That's what you think," Peter dared to dispute with her as he stopped in his tracks and nodded towards a nearby shop.

"We're going to the chippy?" Carla couldn't keep the disdain from her voice as she stared at the shop in question.

"Just like on our first date," Peter reminded her of the day sixteen years earlier when they had eaten chips together. "Well, our only date really."

"It wasn't exactly a date though, was it?"

"Whatever it was," Peter suddenly turned to face Carla square on, staring at her intently. "It was pretty special."

Taken off guard by Peter's gaze, full of a meaning she didn't quite understand, Carla merely stared back at him in confusion.

"Pretty damn special, don't you think, when you look at the result of that day?" Peter hinted at Carla's unexpected arrival nine months later.

"I'll grant you that," Carla grudgingly conceded. "But, umm… as for the 'date' as you like to call it. You were a sailor on shore leave, Peter. I know exactly what that day was to you."

"Look," Peter held his hands up as if in surrender. "I'm not gonna deny that's what I did a lot of the time on shore leave. What do you expect? I'm a red-blooded man, I've got needs! But you… you were different, you were, well… let's just say, I didn't forget you."

"Peter, you don't have to say those things, just cause I had your kid."

"I'm telling you the truth," Peter spoke earnestly, looking Carla straight in the eye. "Now, are we having chips or not?"

"Go on then," Carla agreed with a smile, falling into step beside Peter as he headed towards the chippy. "Hey, do you reckon that's why Emily loves chips so much? Because of the day she was conceived?"

* * *

"There you go." Peter placed a full glass of wine next to the empty one in front of Carla before sliding into the Rovers booth opposite her and reaching for the pint of lager he'd bought for himself, a whisky chaser standing ready on the side. They had naturally gravitated to the Rovers after their chippy lunch, both eager to extend their time together for as long as possible.

"Thanks," Carla smiled at him. "I better make this my last one though."

"Oh, come on," Peter chivvied her. "Let's make an afternoon of it."

"I'd love to, but, after what I said to Liam this morning, it wouldn't look too good if I skived off in the pub all afternoon."

"Boring," Peter teased her, before lifting the pint to his lips and draining half the glass before pausing for a breath. "So anyway, this bloke comes into the shop, came in once a week every week without fail, to place a five-quid bet. And without fail, he always bet on the loser. I swear, this guy had a sixth sense for backing every old nag going." Peter paused for another drink, finishing not only his pint but the whisky as well. "Hey, Liz!" Peter yelled out to the Rovers landlady, holding the pint and whisky glass in the air. "Same again, love!" He turned to Carla. "You sure you don't want another?"

"I'm sure," Carla affirmed as she watched him with narrowed eyes.

"Except this one day he comes in, puts his fiver down on what I thought was just another nag and you know what?"

Liz placed a pint and a whisky chaser in front of Peter. "Thanks Liz, here you go." Peter handed over some cash to Liz and took a large swig of the pint before leaning forward over the table towards Carla, his anecdote rapidly reaching its climax.

"What was I saying?" Peter peered at her as he wiped away the beads of sweat that were beginning to form on his brow.

"The guy put a fiver down," Carla prompted him.

"Oh, yeah," Peter nodded, catching up to his place in the story. "He put a fiver down on a rank outsider. Fifty to one. And you'll never guess what?"

"The horse won?" Carla answered, dead pan.

"The horse won!" Peter laughed raucously. "So I asked him, mate, what's your system? You know what he said?"

"I have no idea," Carla replied, folding her arms and leaning back against the booth.

"The morning before he comes in to place his bet, he shows his kid the colours the jockeys are gonna wear. You know, the racing silks. And so the kid chooses whatever colour takes his fancy. Can you believe that!?"

"Oh, I can believe anything." Carla looked on with growing concern as Peter quickly drained yet another pint and whisky chaser and rose to his feet and, swaying slightly, headed towards the bar.

"Drink?" He slurred over his shoulder at Carla.

"No," Carla shook her head. "Peter, come sit with me."

"Hold up a minute, I'm getting another drink."

"But –"

Carla sighed and wondered how best to extricate herself from the suddenly awkward situation when Leanne Battersby sauntered in. Almost immediately, Leanne clapped eyes on Carla and, desperate to make amends, hesitantly approached her former friend.

"Hi," Leanne greeted Carla sheepishly. "How's it going?"

"How's it going?" Carla repeated coldly. "You're asking me how's it going?"

"Carla, look I'm really sorry about what happened, but –"

"You mean when my husband died?"

"Well, yeah, but… you know it wasn't my fault, I –"

"Just go Leanne," Carla dismissed her. "I'm not interested."

"If we can just talk about it," Leanne pleaded.

"Keep away from me!" Carla warned. "I mean it!"

Leanne, the message having finally sunk in, skulked away to the bar where Peter was waiting for his drinks and watching the altercation between the two women with interest.

"Peter," Liz drew his attention to her as she placed his drinks on the bar.

"Thanks Liz," Peter once again handed a note over to Liz. "Keep the change."

On his return to the booth, Peter this time slipped into the seat next to Carla rather than the one opposite her.

Carla looked at him with growing disgust; he was drunk, leery and his breath stank.

Peter looked at Carla and wanted her.

"How about we end this date the same way we ended our first?" Peter whispered suggestively.

"No, I don't think so," Carla was trying her utmost to remain polite even though she felt like slapping him.

"Come on, sexy, we had a good time, didn't we?"

But before Carla could answer, Peter leaned in and tried to kiss her.

"Stop it!" Carla laid her hands on Peter's shoulders and pushed him away from her.

"Don't be like that," Peter persisted, this time placing a hand on Carla's thigh.

"Get off me!" Carla stood up and glared at Peter. "Get out of my way!"

Peter merely stared at her in a drunken haze of confusion.

"I said move!"

Peter finally got the message; he stood up and allowed Carla to pass.

"I'm sorry."

"You're drunk, Peter!" Carla spat her indictment at him. "And you stink! Go home and… have a bath!"

Peter kicked himself for his idiocy as he watched Carla storm out of the pub. Looking around, uncertain of his next move, he spied Leanne at the bar and remembered the animosity he'd witnessed between her and Carla.

"Hey," Peter stumbled towards Leanne. "I take it you and, umm… Carla! You aren't friends?"

"Whatever made you think that?" Leanne responded with characteristic sarcasm. "We used to be. Not anymore."

"What happened?"

Leanne looked Peter up and down with more than a little curiosity.

"Buy me a drink and I'll tell you."

* * *

The next morning, Peter took a deep breath, composing himself, before he had the courage to push open the front door of the factory. A hazy memory and a pounding headache were stark reminders of the disaster that had been the night before.

With a sheepish grin at the machinists who stared at him, unabashed, as he shuffled towards the factory office, Peter rapped sharply on the door.

"Yes!" Carla's familiar brusque voice beckoned him inside.

"You again!" Liam attended Peter's arrival with antipathy.

"What do you want?" Carla asked coldly.

"I, umm… I wanted to apologise," Peter stammered.

"For…?" Carla wasn't going to make this easy for him.

"Can we…" Peter looked askance at Liam. "Have some privacy?"

"Say what you gotta say and leave!" Liam demanded unsympathetically.

"Liam," Carla reprimanded him gently. "Give us a minute, will you."

"I'm not leaving you alone with him!"

"I'm a big girl, Liam. I can look after myself."

Liam glanced dubiously from Carla to Peter and back again before submitting to Carla's will. "Fine."

Peter smiled gratefully at Carla as Liam closed the office door behind him, leaving them alone. "Thank you."

"I didn't do it for you," Carla brushed aside his thanks. "I just didn't want to air my dirty laundry in front of Liam."

"Even so…" Peter was suddenly uneasy, his confidence stripped by Carla's cool manner.

"You were here to apologise," Carla reminded him.

"Oh, yeah," Peter nodded. "I am so sorry, Carla, I don't know what got into me."

"Half a dozen pints and the same in whisky chasers if I remember correctly."

"It got a little out of hand," Peter admitted. "I'm sorry, I really am."

"You know, Peter, you can be really sweet and thoughtful, and a lot of fun to be around, someone I want to spend time with. But that person you became last night after a few drinks… I don't want that person in my daughter's life."

"_Our_ daughter."

"Technically, yes, you're her father. But she already has a dad…" Carla paused before she corrected herself. "Had a dad."

"And what an upstanding citizen he turned out to be!" Peter spoke with unexpected venom.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?!"

"Nothing. I'm sorry. I just… I want her to know about me. I want us to have a relationship."

"And I don't want to stand in the way of that, but… I dunno, I want to wait for the right time."

"You know she's gonna find out sooner or later. And if it's later and she does the maths and finds out how long you've been keeping me a secret from her… how do you think she'll react?"

"She would not thank me for the protection, that's for sure." Carla admitted reluctantly, for a moment regretting raising her daughter to be so like herself. "Listen, we're moving back to our own flat tonight. I'll tell her then."

"I want to be there when you tell her."

"No."

"Carla."

"I'm sorry, Peter, but that's not up for negotiation. I mean it."

* * *

Carla and Emily lugged their suitcases in through the front door of Number 4 Drapers Mill Apartments that evening, both relieved to finally be back in their own home. It had been a comfort to them, staying those few days with Michelle following their return from Ireland, but they'd soon longed for their own space again, their own home comforts.

Emily began to drag her suitcase towards the staircase when Carla stopped her.

"Darling, sit down a minute. I need to talk to you."

"Can't it wait? I wanna unpack."

"No, it has to be now," Carla insisted, before adding under her breath. "Before I bottle it."

"Oh," Emily was suddenly curious. "Okay."

Emily obediently sat down on the sofa, Carla sat next to her. But Carla remained silent, fearful of the effect her words would have on her daughter; she knew that what she had to say would turn Emily's world upside down.

"Mum?" Emily prompted her mum nervously. "What's wrong? Has something happened?"

Ever since her mum had sat her down that awful day to break the news that her dad had died in a car crash, a vice-like fear gripped Emily's heart every time someone wanted to have a serious conversation with her.

"Mum!" Emily's voice was rising along with her increasing panic. "You're starting to scare me."

Carla took Emily's hand in her own and stroked it comfortingly.

"I'm sorry, darling, I, umm… it's about your father."

"Dad?" Emily wasn't expecting this. "What about him?"

"No, not your dad," Carla clarified. "Your biological father."

"Oh," Emily was suddenly at a loss for words.

"You know I've never really spoken about him. I didn't really know anything about him to speak about."

"I know."

"Recently, I umm…" Carla took a deep breath, letting it out with a long sigh. "I bumped into him. It was totally unexpected, completely out of the blue."

"You've seen him?"

"I've spoken to him," Carla revealed the extent of her astonishing news. "At length. Told him all about you."

"He knows about me? What did he…?" But Emily couldn't finish her question; she couldn't bear the thought of her father knowing about her existence but not wanting anything to do with her.

"He wants to meet you. Properly, I mean," Carla added cryptically. "You've kind of already met him."

"Mum, just tell me, please. Who is he? Who is my father?"

"Peter Barlow."

"Barlow?" Emily's brow furrowed as she tried to place the name. "You mean like the Barlow's that live next to the pub?"

"Yeah, he's Ken Barlow's son. He's visiting at the moment from Portsmouth. That's where he lives."

"Is he the one that's always smoking out on the street?"

"Sounds like him," Carla couldn't help but smile at her daughter's lingering impression of her father.

"He's my dad? Peter Barlow?"

"Yes, he is," Carla confirmed. "How do feel about that?"

"I don't know," Emily looked up at her mum in confusion. "What do I do now?"

"Darling, there's no pressure on you to do anything. If you want to see him, then you can see him."

"And if I don't?"

"That's fine too. Whatever you decide. I'll support you one hundred per cent."

"Can I go to my room?"

"Yeah," Carla was confused. "Of course you can."

Emily stood up and, grabbing her suitcase, walked towards the staircase.

"I'm here for you," Carla called after her daughter's rapidly retreating figure. "If you want to talk about it?"

"I don't."

* * *

Emily knocked resolutely on the door.

She'd lain awake most of the night, trying to come to a decision. But, as the morning sunlight filtered softly through her bedroom window and threw dappled patterns of light and shade over her duvet, she was no closer to understanding how she felt, or knowing what she should do. But she had to do something; doing nothing was driving her crazy. So, here she was, winging it, acting purely on instinct.

The door opened; Ken Barlow, her grandfather.

"Emily?"

Emily stared at Ken in confusion, a million questions suddenly rushing through her mind as she clocked the expression on his face when he saw her, the tone in his voice when he spoke her name. How much did he know about her? Did he know she was his granddaughter? Was he expecting to play the doting grandfather?

"Peter Barlow," Emily stated abruptly, her desire to control her rising emotion causing her to appear cold and indifferent. "Is he here?"

"Yes, he is," Ken responded with warmth. "Please, come in."

As Emily sat stiffly at the Barlow's kitchen table while Ken hurried upstairs to find Peter, she couldn't help but study the framed family photographs dotted about the room; on the sideboard, on the coffee table, hung on the wall. She peered into the faces of these unknown people, desperate to find any tell-tale sign, any indication that they were a part of her family, a part of her.

"I'm sure she didn't mean anything by it, mother." Deirdre Barlow's voice echoed through to Emily from the front hall. "You're much too sensitive."

"There's no way I'm going back to the One O'Clock Club! Not until that woman apologises," Blanche Hunt declared as she shuffled into the kitchen behind her daughter. "We'll go to the Rovers instead."

"Emily?" Deirdre gasped in surprise. "Hello."

"You know then? She's told you?" Blanche didn't bother to wait for an introduction. "It's about time you came to see your father."

"Mother!" The colour rose in Deirdre's cheeks as she smiled at Emily, an awkward welcome. "We're very glad to have you here, Emily. I'm Deirdre. I'm Peter's step-mum."

"I know," Emily responded coolly.

"Of course you do, silly me," Deirdre muttered, suddenly self-conscious. "Has Ken gone to fetch Peter?"

"Yes."

"Would you like a cuppa tea while you wait?" Deirdre made a move to turn the kettle on, until-

"No, thank you," Emily shut her down.

"What did I tell you?" Blanche observed to Deirdre in her typical acerbic manner. "Just like her mother this one; cold fish." She turned to Emily, her words dripping with recrimination. "Didn't your mother teach you any manners? To respect your elders?"

"Mother!" Deirdre reprimanded; glancing at Emily with embarrassment. "I'm sorry about her, oh– here's Peter, thank god!"

Emily looked up at Peter, her father, as he stood nervously by the kitchen door, staring down at her, suddenly unsure of what to do or what to say. An uneasy silence descended over the unlikely new family.

"Why don't we leave you to it," Ken suggested as he followed Peter into the kitchen, hinting heavily to Deirdre and Blanche. "Ladies? Shall we?"

"I haven't had me lunch yet!" Blanche protested. "Deirdre was about to open a tin of mulligatawny soup!"

"I'll buy you a hotpot at the Rovers instead," Ken promised. "Now, come on!"

"Well, pardon me for breathing," Blanche hissed as she followed Ken towards the door. "I'll be expecting a gin and tonic after this, a double if you please."

"Oh, mother," Deirdre moaned. "Just get a move on will you!"

After much muttering about being thrown out of one's own home, Ken successfully led his wife and mother-in-law to the pub next door, leaving Peter and Emily alone, their eyes still locked on each other's.

"Mum told me," Emily announced matter-of-fact.

"Oh," Peter was at a loss. This is what he had wanted but, now that he was faced with a fifteen-year-old girl, a stranger to him, looking at him with such confusion along with a little defiance in her eyes, he had no idea what to say, how to make up for his absence in her life. "How, umm… how do you feel?"

Emily swallowed hard before answering; she didn't know if it was the truth or if she was taking the coward's way out. But it was all she had right now.

"I feel nothing."

"Nothing?" Peter stared at her in confusion. Surely this couldn't be it? This couldn't be how things ended?

"You know," Emily explained as best she could. "I always imagined what it would be like to meet my biological father, how amazing it would be to finally find this part of my life that had been missing for so long. But, when mum told me about you, all I could think about was my dad and how he would feel if he was still alive."

"I'm not trying to replace him."

"Good. Because you could never come close to him. He was my dad. And I don't need another one. I don't want another one."

Emily stood up abruptly.

"Can't we talk about this?" Peter pleaded.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be cruel. But I've had a great life so far without you. I didn't need you growing up and I don't need you now."

"Emily, please."

But Emily didn't respond. All Peter could do was watch despondently as Emily walked past him without a glance; a moment later he heard the front door open and then close behind his daughter. His daughter who didn't want to be.

Instinctively, Peter reached for the bottle of whisky on the sideboard and poured himself a shot. Tipping his head back, he downed the shot of whisky with barely a grimace as the fiery amber liquid drained down his throat. Immediately he poured himself another.

* * *

"You're joking!" Ryan stared at Emily in disbelief as they sat side-by-side at the bus stop.

"Nope."

"So, what are you gonna do?"

"Nothing," Emily declared. "I've already told him I don't want nothin' to do with him."

"But he's your dad?"

"No, my dad was my dad."

"You mean, uncle Paul?"

"Yes!" Emily confirmed, exasperated. "Who else!?"

"No need to bite my head off!"

"Sorry, it's just…"

"A shock?" Ryan suggested.

"Just a bit."

"Talk of the devil."

"What?" Emily turned to Ryan in confusion.

He merely nodded; Emily looked around to see Peter, an obviously drunk Peter, staggering down the street towards them.

"Oh god."

"What do you wanna do?" Ryan asked. "Do you wanna go?"

"No, ignore him."

But Peter would not be ignored. He dropped onto the bench next to Ryan, slumping against the bus shelter.

"That's my daughter," he slurred into Ryan's ear, nodding at Emily.

"Yeah, I know."

"But she don't wanna know me. She's sorted for dads. Don't want no more. Hey –" Peter prodded Ryan in the shoulder. "Do ya think that means we're related?"

"I don't think so, no."

"What?" Peter acted affronted. "You don't wanna know me either? Is that it?"

"Listen, mate," Ryan attempted to play peacemaker. "You're not doing yourself any favours here."

"And he wonders why I don't want him as a dad," Emily finally spoke, the sarcasm effectively masking her pain. "Drunk in the middle of the day, as if."

"Well, to be fair," Ryan pointed out coolly. "Your mum's quite fond of the sauce herself."

"Ryan!"

"Hey!" Peter disputed the charge as he stumbled to his feet to face Emily. "Don't you dare judge me. Not after what you said to me earlier."

"You're drunk," Emily declared, her anger rising. "That's not a judgement, that's a fact."

"You think that precious daddy of yours was any better?"

"Don't you dare talk about him!"

"Why would you mourn a man like that?" Peter sneered. "After what he did!"

"Emily," Ryan stood up and turned to his cousin. "Let's go, don't listen to him."

"No," Emily refused, turning to Peter in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Your sainted father," Peter slurred bitterly. "Turns out he's not so saintly after all."

* * *

Emily stumbled in a daze over the cobbles, the tears running unchecked down her cheeks. She wouldn't believe him, she couldn't; he couldn't have done it, could he? Emily crashed through the doors of the factory, almost collapsing on them as she pushed them open. Oblivious to the shocked and concerned faces of the machinists, she burst into the factory office. She wanted her mum. Only her mum would do.

Startled at the unexpected entrance, Carla looked up from her desk; immediately she rose to her feet and, rushing around her desk, wrapped her daughter, who was almost overcome with her sobs, in a loving embrace.

"What's wrong, baby? What's happened."

But the words wouldn't come for Emily. All Carla could do was hold her daughter as her body shook violently with overwhelming emotion.

"We really need to do something about –" Liam's words died on his lips as he walked into the office and saw his niece in such a distressed state.

"Shut the door," Carla hissed at him.

Uncharacteristically, Liam obeyed Carla without hesitation. Turning back to face Carla, he mouthed the question, 'What's wrong?'

Carla shrugged.

"Hey, kid," Liam tried to sound upbeat, placing his hand gently on Emily's shoulder. "What's up? You can tell your uncle Liam."

"Liam, she's not crying cause she's stuck on a level of… I dunno, whatever the latest video game you and Ryan are obsessed with."

"You never know," Liam joked, nudging Emily gently with his elbow. "Now, Ems, are you wanting to learn from the master? These fingers…" He mimed playing on a games controller. "…like lightning they are. Don't listen to that toerag Ryan, he's just jealous. Hey? Ems? Is that it?"

Emily couldn't help but laugh through one of her sobs; she could always count on her uncle Liam to make her smile.

"What is it, then, sweetheart?" Carla stroked Emily's hair softly. "Come on, sit down."

"I just saw Peter," Emily began once she was sitting, her mum and uncle Liam, having pulled up chairs, sitting close by her. "He said something about dad. He said…"

"Go on, it's okay," Carla encouraged her to continue.

"He said," Emily's lip trembled. "He said that dad used to sleep with prostitutes. He said that you found out and were gonna leave him and that's why he crashed his car, because he was so upset."

"I'm gonna kill him!" Liam declared, rising to his feet.

"Sit down!" Carla commanded.

"He can't go around saying things like that!"

"Liam! This isn't helping. Please… sit down."

Liam was on the verge of defying Carla and storming around to No. 1 to have it out with Peter when he caught a glimpse of Emily's tear-stained face. Carla was right, him lashing out at that waste of space was not going to help his niece. He sank back into his chair.

"I'm sorry, Ems."

"It's okay," Emily smiled sadly at her uncle before turning back to her mum. "Is it true? What Peter said about dad?"

Carla took a deep breath and looked into her daughter's eyes. She had never wanted Emily to find out the awful truth about her dad, but she wasn't about to lie to her, not when she'd been asked a direct question.

"Mum?"

"Yes, it's true."

Emily's face crumpled as she again broke down sobbing.

"Listen, darling," Carla wiped the tears from Emily's face. "I don't want you to let this affect your memories of your dad. He adored you. You know that, don't you?"

"Then why did he do it?"

"He didn't do it to you, he did it to me."

"He hurt you, didn't he?"

"Yes, darling, he did."

"If someone hurts you," Emily declared. "Then they hurt me as well. That's how it works."

Carla couldn't help but smile at Emily's family loyalty.

"What I don't get," Liam piped up. "Is why Peter would say this to you. Why he would want to hurt you like that."

"Well, umm…" Emily began nervously. "I went to see him this morning."

"Oh, sweetheart, why didn't you tell me? I could've gone with you, supported you."

"I know, I just… It was something I had to do on my own."

"I guess it didn't go so well?"

"I told him I wasn't interested in having any kind of relationship with him."

"Oh…"

"I don't even know why I said that. I mean, it was like I was watching someone else talk, and these words were coming out of my mouth and I couldn't stop them. He didn't deserve that, did he? It wasn't his fault he didn't know about me. None of it was his fault. But, I guess, looking back, I dunno, maybe I made the right decision?"

"Maybe."

"I don't want to see him again, mum," Emily pleaded with Carla. "Not even in the street."

"Don't worry about it, okay. I'll deal with him." Carla sealed her promise with a soft kiss on Emily's forehead. "Now, about your dad…"

"What about him?"

"He made mistakes, I'm not gonna lie. But, we all make mistakes, right? It doesn't mean that he didn't love you."

"Did he love you?"

"He did," Liam interjected. "I know he did."

Carla smiled gratefully at Liam. "I don't want a stupid mistake to ruin your memories of him. I want you to forgive him. Please, Emily."

"I'll try," Emily nodded tearfully.

"Thank you."

"If you promise me one thing."

"Anything."

"I want you to forgive him as well."

Carla reached out and caressed Emily's cheek gently.

"I'll try."

* * *

"Where is he!?" Carla demanded the moment Ken answered the door.

"If you mean Peter…?"

"Yes, I mean Peter. Who else would I mean?"

"Who is it, dad?" Peter's voice echoed down the hallway.

"Right!" Carla pushed past Ken and stormed down the hallway into the kitchen where Peter was sat nursing a cup of tea.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Carla bypassed the usual social niceties. "Telling Emily about Paul?"

"She deserved to know the truth!"

"She's over at the factory right now, you know. In floods of tears. She's heartbroken."

"I didn't mean to..."

"You didn't mean to?" Carla's words dripped with sarcasm. "Well, I guess that's alright then. If you didn't mean to."

"I'm sorry, okay! I wasn't thinking."

"I understand you were upset after what Emily said to you this morning."

"She told you?"

"Of course she told me, I'm her mum. What she said, it must've hurt. But, Peter, surely you knew that was just her first reaction. You needed to give her some time to get used to the idea. But instead… Look, whatever Paul did, he did it to me. Not to her. And I could handle that, I was handling that. Emily didn't ever need to know about it."

"She would've found out eventually."

"No, she wouldn't," Carla declared resolutely. "Because everyone who knows the truth would do everything in their power to protect her. To protect her memories of her dad."

"Not everyone."

"What do you mean?" Carla's brow furrowed in confusion. "Actually, how did you find out?"

"Leanne Battersby," Peter confessed. "I think she was a bit annoyed when you refused to talk to her the other night."

"Leanne? Wow, that bitch really is something else. Did she happen to mention that she was one of the working girls that Paul used to see? No? Didn't think to add that salient detail, did she?"

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Peter cried, the impact of his actions finally sinking in. "Let me see her. Emily. I want to apologise to her."

Peter rose abruptly to his feet, swaying slightly, clutching at the table for support.

"Have you been drinking?"

"What?" Peter's attempts to act offended failed miserably. "No!"

Carla leaned in close to Peter and smelled his breath.

"You've been drinking! It's the middle of the afternoon and you're drunk!?"

"It was just a little snifter to take the edge off," Peter was desperate to explain, to justify his actions. "I needed something after my daughter rejected me!"

"You know what," Carla declared cruelly. "She's better off with no father rather than having you as a dad."

"You don't mean that."

"I do," Carla decried. "After your performance today, she doesn't want anything to do with you. And neither do I. So, please, Peter, just leave us alone."

* * *

"Are you feeling any better, darling?"

Back at home now, Emily sat with her head resting on her mum's shoulder, the tears gently trickling down her cheeks, a stark contrast to the violent emotion of earlier, her eyes red and sore, her body exhausted.

"I've messed everything up," Emily sobbed through shuddering breaths.

"Oh, darling, you can't blame yourself."

"I told him I didn't want him. I rejected him."

"You were just being honest."

"Was I?" Emily looked up at Carla, desperate for some motherly reassurance.

"Look, it doesn't matter whether you meant what you said or you were confused or… It doesn't matter. Because it didn't give him the right to do what he did. You didn't deserve that."

_Knock knock_

"Don't answer it," Emily begged. "Please, mum."

"It might be important."

Carla hurried to their front door and looked through the peephole. But when she turned back to her daughter and mouthed the name 'Peter', Emily jumped to her feet without a word and rushed upstairs. The message was clear; she didn't want to see him. But she didn't fully retreat; she sat at the top of the stairs, out of sight, and listened.

Only when Emily was safely hidden from view did Carla open the door.

"Hi," Carla greeted Peter calmly. "Come in."

"Thanks," Peter entered the flat, the first time he had been there, and looked about curiously. "I wasn't sure you would want to see me."

"You're my daughter's father," Carla explained placidly. "That's never going to change."

"Even if you might wish it could."

"Don't say that," Carla consoled him. "You made a mistake."

"That's very generous of you, I don't deserve it." Peter smiled at Carla gratefully. "Can I see her?"

"I'm sorry, she's not up to seeing anyone at the moment."

"I wish there was something I could do to make it up to her," Peter appealed to Carla's judgement. "And you."

Carla stared into those soft brown eyes of Peter's, weakening with every passing moment her eyes were locked on his. Of all the traits Emily could have inherited from Peter, she thought to herself, it had to be those damn eyes. Carla couldn't deny their silent plea, it was like denying her own daughter.

"Give it some time, yeah?"

"Time's one thing I don't have," Peter lamented.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm headed back home in the morning."

"To Portsmouth?" Carla exclaimed, incredulous that Peter would run away at the first sign of trouble.

"Yeah."

"You're giving up on her?"

"Never!" Peter declared resolutely. "But she doesn't want me around. Not at the moment anyway. And I've got a shop to run and a life to lead."

"Right." Carla tried to keep the disappointment from her voice.

"Can you say goodbye to her from me?"

"Of course," Carla promised. "Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"You'll keep in touch, yeah?"

"If you want me to?"

"I do," Carla affirmed. "And Emily will, too."

Peter smiled at her in hope if not expectation.

"Bye then," Peter spoke a gentle farewell, his arms outstretched, an invitation that Carla couldn't resist. She stepped into his arms, wrapping hers around his neck, and leaned her head in close to his, naturally nuzzling into his neck. Peter's arms closed around Carla's body, holding her tight, his hands gently stroking her back.

At the top of the stairs, Emily edged closer to the staircase, worried about the sudden silence from below. She peeked through the railings, shifting around until she caught a sight of them; her mum and dad. No, not her dad, her father. They were hugging, but it wasn't a regular hug.

Watching this hug between her parents gave Emily an unexpectedly queer feeling in the pit of her stomach. Was it pain? Pleasure? A bit of both? She wasn't sure she liked what she was seeing. What was it that made her feel like this? Protectiveness over her dad's memory? Over her mum? She inched back from the banister, she didn't want to see any more. Instead, she slumped back against the wall, a silent tear running down her cheek.

* * *

"He's gone then?" Liam asked Carla the next morning in the factory office.

"Yep."

"I don't know why you're so upset about it. You're better off without him."

"He's Emily's father."

"He's a sperm donor, nothing more."

"Don't be so crass, Liam"

_Knock knock_

"Not now!" Carla yelled.

But still the door slowly opened.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Connor," Hayley Cropper poked her head hesitantly around the door. "It's Ken Barlow. He's desperate to see you."

"It's like a flamin' Barlow family drop in centre around here these days!" Liam observed sarcastically.

"Show him in, Hayley," Carla instructed her deputy with a smile.

"I'm sorry," Ken apologised as Hayley showed him into the office. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"No, it's okay," Carla assured him. "Actually, I should be apologising to you, the way I barged into your house yesterday. Take a seat, Ken. Do you want a brew?"

Ken gratefully sat down but declined the drink. "I won't keep you, I just wanted to give you this."

Carla reached out to take the envelope Ken held out for her.

"What is it?"

"It's from Peter," Ken clarified. "For Emily."

"Right," Carla looked at the envelope in her hands with trepidation.

"He's very sorry about the way things turned out," Ken explained. "I'm sure he just wants to make things right."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

"You'll give it to her?"

"Of course I will," Carla promised.

"I've been talking with Deirdre," Ken continued with some hesitation. "And we know that Emily doesn't want anything to do with Peter right now, but… we'd like to get to know her. I mean, she is our granddaughter."

"Oh, I don't know."

"Maybe if she wants to come around for her tea one evening?" Ken suggested hopefully.

"I'll talk to her," Carla reluctantly agreed. "But I can't promise anything. She's still struggling to get her head around everything."

"I understand," Ken nodded. "Thank you."

* * *

"Ken came to see me in the factory today," Carla dropped the mention casually into conversation as she and Emily sat down to their dinner of Thai takeaway that evening.

"Ken Barlow?"

"Yeah," Carla affirmed as she sucked a pad thai noodle into her mouth.

"What did he want?"

"You know he's your grandfather?"

"I'm not stupid, mum!"

"I know, I'm sorry," Carla backed off and focused on her meal.

But Emily's curiosity was piqued. "Are you gonna tell me or what?"

"He thought you might like to have tea with them one night. Him and Deirdre."

"That'd be a bit weird, don't ya think? I mean, I don't know them."

"That's the point, darling, to get to know them. They are your family after all."

"Do I have to?"

"Of course not."

"That's all he wanted?" Emily tried but failed to hide her growing curiosity over the Barlow side of her family.

"No." Carla reached for her handbag and, taking out the envelope containing Peter's letter and placing it down onto the table, pushed it towards Emily. "He asked me to give this to you. It's from Peter."

Emily reached out and gingerly picked up the envelope, studying it intently.

"Are you going to open it?"

Emily didn't answer; she simply rose to her feet, walked into the kitchen and dropped the envelope into the bin without a word.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Carla questioned her daughter. "Don't you want to find out what he's got to say?"

"No."

Carla knew by Emily's tone of voice that pushing her now would only cause her daughter to dig her heels in stubbornly. So she let it go and changed the subject.

"Pass us some of that roti will you?"

* * *

Emily crept down the stairs in the dark, her bare feet padding silently on the steps. She glanced towards her mum's bedroom, but there all was dark as well, with no tell-tale sliver of light beaming out from underneath her bedroom door.

She crept to the kitchen and pulled out the kitchen bin from the cupboard underneath the sink. Grimacing as she carefully scraped aside the remnants of that evening's dinner, she took from the bin the envelope she'd discarded earlier.

She switched on the small light embedded in the exhaust fan above the stovetop; it was bright enough to read by but not so bright that it would wake her mum.

Her eyes flew across the page, eager to know what Peter had to say to her. But, the further she read, the slower her reading became, as the tears that were welling in her eyes blurred her vision.

Slowly, she sunk to the floor as the message from her father sunk in, into her mind and into her heart. She didn't know how long she sat there on her kitchen floor in the middle of the night. She read and re-read her father's letter so many times, she could almost recite it word-for-word.

And finally, when she stopped reading, she thought and she wondered… What should she do now? What could she do now? He was already gone.


	4. Chapter 4: Fashionista

**Chapter 4: Fashionista**

Carla leaned over Emily's pram as yet another bracing gust of wind swept down the pavement, chilling her to the bone.

"There you go, sweetheart," she cooed at her daughter as she tucked the blanket that little bit tighter around the baby's wee body. "Nice and snug."

Rising to her full height once again, she pulled up her scarf to cover her mouth and her nose, red and blotchy with the cold, so that only her eyes peaked out through the gap below her knitted beanie.

"Carla?" A horridly familiar voice called out to her as she pushed the pram down the street, a little bit quicker now. She tried her best to ignore the voice and the man it belonged to, but the man, even more solid and formidable than ever now he was wrapped in a bulky black puffer jacket, ran across the street to confront her. "Carla, is that you?"

"What do you want, George?"

Carla didn't stop, she had no time for George and his games.

"Hey, don't be like that," George said, a smile contorting his face so it was even more gruesome than usual. "Let's be friends, you and me."

"I'd rather stick pins in me eyes."

"Suit yourself," George shrugged his broad shoulders indifferently. "I trust you've got your next payment ready."

"It'll be ready when it's due," Carla deflected. "In two days' time and not a minute before."

"I've got every faith in you, Carla," George said. "Every faith."

For what seemed like the longest thirty seconds of Carla's life, George fell into step next to the young mother, undeterred by her frosty demeanour, even more ice cold than the northern winter chill. More than that, he was highly amused at the effect he was having on her.

When finally Carla stopped and turned towards the local laundromat without a farewell or even further acknowledgement of George, he took his well-timed parting shot.

"That brother of yours is a popular lad," he observed calmly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Carla asked, looking at him for the first time.

"Nothing," he said. "Just thinking... and planning. With so many friends, you see, my market is only going to get bigger."

"I told you to leave him alone."

"I'm a man of my word, Carla. I will leave him alone. As long as you keep to our deal."

"Oh, get stuffed!"

George smirked as Carla pushed Emily's pram into the laundromat and proceeded to unload the oversized bag of dirty laundry she had wedged into the bottom tray of the pram.

* * *

Carla had pointedly ignored George while she shoved her and Emily's soiled clothes into one of the large industrial stainless-steel washing machines. She had refused to even glance at the window while there was any danger of that man watching her.

But, as she inserted the requisite coins into the slot on the top of the washing machine, she dared to look, to find out if she was safe from his evil gaze. He was gone; she was safe for now. With only a momentary sigh of relief, Carla upended the contents of her purse onto the top of the washing machine and counted out what was there.

Nineteen pounds thirty-six pence.

Nineteen flaming pounds and thirty-six rotten pence to last her until she collected her benefits. That was in three days' time. But George would need paying fifty quid in two day's time. She tried not to think about all the other things that money was needed for. Food. The lecky. A few quid for Rob to buy sweets with. All she could think about was George and what he would do if he didn't get his money.

The sound of Emily whimpering softly in her pram brought Carla out of her reverie and she happily re-focused her attention onto her daughter, on the quivering lips and chin, the glistening eyes as the tears threatened to fall. But, with a swift lift out of her pram and into her mother's arms, a smattering of little kisses all over her chubby cheeks and a cosy cuddle, her head nestled into the crook of her mum's neck, all upset was forgotten.

"Aaahhh… thbbft…" Carla blew raspberry kisses on Emily's cheeks, first her left and then her right. "Thbbft…" Emily giggled and squealed in delight as her mum's lips vibrated on her cheeks, her tiny hands clutching at her mum's face, grabbing her nose with her tiny fingers, gripping clumps of her mum's hair in her tiny fists. "We're gonna be just fine, aren't we, baby? Yes, we are. Thbbft…"

Carla held her daughter close, shutting out of her mind the worry about what George had planned for Rob if she didn't pay up. Because she knew he wouldn't let it slide. He couldn't, so he said. Bad for business, he said. But what could she do? She couldn't give him money she didn't have. Unless, of course, she found a way to earn the money in just two days.

It would take a miracle, but she had to try. She owed it to Emily, and to Rob, to at least try.

* * *

As Carla pushed the pram back down the street, the bag stuffed under Emily's carrier seat now filled with clean, dry clothes, her eye was caught by a striking window display. She paused and turned to face the window, peering at the creative display of designer children's clothing, and wondered.

It was worth a try, she thought. Anything was worth a try at this late stage.

So she manoeuvred the pram through the doors and into the boutique, an upmarket, if somewhat pretentious boutique, given its location, and began to browse the racks.

She picked up piece after piece, studying each one; the fabric, the stitching, the construction, the care instructions. She held each one up against Emily, trying to picture in her mind the finished effect.

"Can I help you?"

Carla turned to the middle-aged smartly dressed woman staring down at her, one eyebrow raised above an enquiring eye, its lid perfectly shadowed and lined, its lashes painted the blackest of blacks.

"No, thanks."

"These ones," the woman said, nodding to the pair of dungarees Carla held in her hands. "Are handmade. They're very expensive."

"Not for the likes of me, is that what you're saying?"

The sales assistant merely smirked and waited. For a moment, Carla's stubbornness forced her to stand her ground. But she soon gave up. What was the point, she thought. She'd already got what she went in for.

* * *

"You alright, Carla?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, Liam," Carla smiled at her best friend's brother, proudly manning the market stall he and their eldest brother, Paul, had set up in partnership the previous summer. "How's business?"

"Oh, you know," Liam said with a shrug of his shoulders. "Up and down. But, yeah, we're doing alright. How's this little one then?"

Liam leaned over Emily's pram and gave her tummy a tickle, being rewarded for his efforts by an exquisitely golden giggle.

"She's perfect."

"Yeah," Liam smiled at Carla indulgently. "I think you're right."

"Oi! Liam!" Paul yelled at his little brother. "Get back to work, will ya! Stop chatting up the punters."

"It's just Carla," Liam yelled back at him. "She's not a punter."

"Hi, Carla," Paul greeted her sarcastically. "Nice to see you and all, but can you move on, yeah, make some space for our customers?"

"Sorry about him," Liam whispered loudly to her. "He's a grumpy old man before his time, that one."

"Don't worry about it," Carla reassured him. "I've got things to do, places to be. I'll see ya."

"Laters," Liam farewelled her with a grin.

"He's all yours, Paul!" Carla called out to "old man Connor", a cheeky grin on her face.

"Carla," he dismissed her curtly.

With a smile playing on her lips at the very familiar sight of the Connor boys bickering, a sure sign of their fondness for each other, she and Emily made a beeline for the fabric section of the market and were soon lost in the myriad of bright colours and patterns. She compared fabrics against fabrics, the feel of each textile as she ran her hands over it, the complement and the contrast that each fabric brought when combined with other fabrics.

It wasn't until Emily began grizzling in her pram, hungry for a feed, and the stallholder began glancing at his watch with an increased frequency, that Carla realised how long she'd been standing there trying to make up her mind.

"Sorry," she shot the stallholder an apologetic look, before handing him the bolt of fabric she had been inspecting. "And that one as well."

"How much did you want again? Two metres of each?"

"Depends, what's the damage?"

"Umm…" the stallholder did some quick sums in his head. "Thirty five quid. I'll do it for you at, say... thirty."

"Thirty?" Carla said, reminding herself of the grand total of nineteen pounds thirty-six pence she currently had to her name. "How about a metre of each for fifteen, yeah? And this thread and the buttons for two. So a total of seventeen. Deal?"

"It's a deal at eighteen," he counter-offered.

Carla breathed in then out. Slowly and smoothly, the air passed her lips, yet even she could hear the shake, the nerves. If she failed, if her plan didn't work, she was royally screwed. She knew that. But what choice did she have? She was royally screwed if she did nothing. By taking action she had a chance. It was a small chance but still, it was a chance.

"It's a deal."

* * *

"Emily, please," Carla begged her daughter, bouncing her gently in her arms as she paced up and down the very small space she called the living area of her and Emily's bedsit. "Mummy has to get to work."

The seconds ticked over into minutes and eventually into hours before Emily settled, her eyes buttoned firmly shut as she slumbered peacefully in her cot.

Carla wasn't so lucky, however. If she had any chance of making George's payment deadline, she'd have to work through the night to make it happen.

Taking one of Emily's clean rompers, Carla held it up under the light and studied it intently. She spread the fabric that she'd bought from the market over the bed, layering different fabrics over other fabrics at different angles, and then laid the romper down over the fabric.

She stood back and considered the jumble of fabrics laid out on her bed, a pair of scissors in her hand.

"I think that's it," she said to herself, a triumphant grin on her face. "I think you've got it, girl."

* * *

"Oh, come on," Carla begged the Connor boys as they set up their stall early the next morning. "This is quality stuff, it'll fly off the shelves."

"But it's not our stuff, love," Paul dismissed her enthusiasm. "What's in it for us, ey?"

"Well," Carla wracked her brain, struggling in her fatigued state to come up with a tempting business proposition. "How about a commission on every sale?"

"Hmm…" Paul scrunched up his nose in distaste. "I dunno."

Carla turned her attention to Liam; she knew he'd give her a chance if he could.

"Liam, please."

"Mate, look at them," he held up a pair of tiny dungarees in front of his brother, one of a dozen Carla had brought with her that day, the result of her sewing efforts the previous night. Each panel of the garment was a contrasting fabric in a different vibrant shade or pattern. "They're well cute."

"And look," Carla interjected, opening Emily's coat to reveal the pair she was wearing. "Our very own model to show the punters just how gorgeous their kiddies will look."

"Come on, Paul," Liam begged his brother. "How can you resist such cuteness?!"

"Yeah, Uncle Paul," Carla held Emily up close to her side like a ventriloquist's dummy, the baby's angelic face directed at Paul, adding to Liam's pleas. "Don't be mean, Uncle Paul."

"Okay," Paul shook his head and couldn't help but smile. "I give up. You win."

"Good man!" Liam congratulated him.

"But I want ten per cent," Paul insisted. "Ten per cent of every sale you make comes to me."

"Yeah, sure," Carla agreed, a broad smile spreading across her face. "Whatever you want."

* * *

"That's a fiver in change," Carla said as she handed the note over to her customer. "And your dungarees."

"Thanks, love," the customer said before nodding to Emily who was dozing in her pram. "You've got a right cutie there."

"Don't I just."

Carla's smile held until the customer had turned and was out of earshot, before it faded to a worried frown.

While Carla's first day of trading the day before had gone well, so much so that she'd spent the following night sewing even more dungarees, hoping to sell enough the next day to meet her target, she was nervous. Time was running out.

She opened up her purse and discretely counted the money tucked inside, her profits from her fledgling enterprise.

"Counting your millions, are ya?" Liam asked.

But Carla didn't answer him. Forty-five pounds. She only had forty-five pounds. She had got so close. But it wasn't enough.

"Hey, what's up with you?" Liam prodded her gently on the shoulder. "You don't wanna rub shoulders with us common folk now you've ma–"

"Shut up, Liam!" Carla snapped at him. "For god's sake, just…"

"Alright," Liam said, justifiably put out by her aggressiveness. "Don't snap me head off."

"I'm sorry," Carla said with a sigh.

"Hey," Liam said softly, pulling up a chair next to hers. "What's up?"

"It's no–"

"Don't you dare say it's nothing," Liam warned her. "Because we both know that's a lie."

"I owe George money," Carla confessed, her voice barely a whisper, relieved to share her burden with someone else, someone who cared. "Well, Rob owes it really, but he's got no chance of paying it back, has he? He's a fourteen-year-old kid."

"So you took on his debt?"

"Yeah," Carla nodded tearfully. "What else could I do? I've got a payment due today. And I thought if I sold enough dungarees I'd get the money, but…"

"You're short?"

"Five measly quid."

"Five quid? Just give him what you've got, Carla. I'm sure he'll under–"

"Don't be so naïve, Liam. You know what George is like. Even if I'm one penny short he'll make me pay. No, he'll make Rob pay."

"Okay," Liam said, his heart aching for this desperate girl in front of him, a girl who would do anything to protect her brother, even if it meant taking on someone like George. Because he did know what George was like. Everyone on the estate knew what a cruel, heartless man George was. "When is it due? The money."

"Three o'clock."

"Carla!" Liam exclaimed as he looked at his watch. "That's in 10 minutes! You're not gonna make it!

"Don't you think I know that?" Carla snapped at him. "You're not helping, Liam!"

"Where?"

"Wha–"

"Where are you meeting him?"

"The football oval."

Liam jumped to his feet, grabbed a fiver from his and Paul's takings, and held his hand out to Carla.

"Come on, then."

"You can't, Liam."

"Do you want that maniac to take it out on Rob?"

"What about…?" Carla looked at Emily.

"Paul!" Liam called out to his brother. "Look after Ems for a bit, yeah?"

"What?" Paul protested, horrified at the thought. "No! No way!"

"Thanks, mate." Liam grabbed Carla's hand and dragged her away before his brother could object.

"There's clean nappies in the bag," Carla called to Paul over her shoulder.

"But–"

"Thanks!"

Paul stared after the pair in dismay as they disappeared into the market crowds until his attention was drawn to the whimpering baby in the pram by his side. He crouched down and leaned over the pram, so that his face was close to Emily's.

"I'm going to need you to be quiet now," he calmly instructed her. "Do you understand?"

But of course Emily didn't understand and soon her whimpering became unrelenting crying, her wails rising above the din of the market crowd.

"Please don't cry," Paul begged her, at a loss as to how to stop this alien-like creature from making so much noise.

But Emily continued to cry without abatement.

"Fine."

Paul had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but he realised he had no other choice. He gingerly lifted Emily out of her pram and rested her against his shoulder, his arms wrapped securely around her little body as he gently bounced her, comforted her.

"Shhh…" he whispered to her, his cheek pressed up against her downy head. "Hush now, baby."

And to Paul's surprise, Emily listened to him, was soothed by him, and eventually she stopped crying.

"There we go," Paul cooed at the baby in his arms, gazing down at her. "That wasn't too hard, was it."

Emily merely gazed back up at Paul, her soft brown eyes wide with innocence and complete trust in this man who held her so awkwardly yet so lovingly at the same time. Paul smiled back down at Emily, unsure of how to feel about this strange creature and the unexpected effect she was having on him. If he didn't know better, he might think that he was actually enjoying looking after her. But he did know better; he knew he wasn't a baby person, knew he didn't want kids, didn't like kids. This one wasn't any different.

"You are precious, aren't you?" he whispered as he planted a soft kiss on Emily's forehead. "Yes, you are."

* * *

"It's all there," Carla declared as she and Liam watched George very slowly and very deliberately count the money she'd just handed over to him.

"It's not that I don't trust you, Carla," George said in that infuriatingly calm yet intrinsically threatening voice that Carla despised. "But this is business."

"Whatever," Carla rolled her eyes as she waited impatiently for George to finish.

"Fifty pounds exactly," George announced, tucking the notes into the front pocket of his jeans. "You did it."

"Don't sound so surprised," Carla said. "I told you I'd get it and I did."

"Hmmppf!" George merely grunted, the disappointment that Carla had met another week's deadline clearly evident. "Until next week." He turned slowly on his heel and set his large mass in motion to walk away from a weekly meeting he always derived such satisfaction from.

"Hey," Liam called George back, speaking for the first time. "If there's ever any trouble over Carla's payments, you come talk to me alright?"

"Liam," Carla hissed at her friend. "Don't!"

"Carla, it's okay," he reassured her. "I know what I'm doing."

"Let me get this straight," George growled as he stepped close to Liam, looking him dead in the eye. "You're willing to go guarantor for her."

Liam swallowed hard; although he'd heard plenty of rumours about George, this was the first time he'd had any first-hand dealings with the thug.

"Yeah," Liam nodded. "I'll be her guarantor."

Liam and Carla watched with fear and trepidation as George finally left them a few moments later, a smile of satisfaction on his face at having one of the Connor lads on the hook.

"What have you done?" Carla cried, turning to Liam as George disappeared into the distance. "Liam!"

"I wanted to help," Liam replied. "You don't need to do this alone, Carla. Hey?"

Carla looked up at Liam, tears glistening on her cheeks, tears of gratitude, along with a new fear that yet another person she cared about was potentially in serious trouble because of her.

"Thank you," Carla said, reaching up and kissing him softly on the cheek. For a moment, both of them stood as if frozen, Carla's lips grazing Liam's cheek, his cheek pressed against her lips.

"We better get back," Liam said abruptly, pulling away from her. "Paul's probably had a breakdown by now looking after Ems."

* * *

"What are you up to today?" Carla asked Emily as she rushed around their quayside flat, preparing for a busy day at the factory. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please," Emily accepted gratefully. "I, umm… actually I…"

Carla stopped her morning coffee ritual and turned to her daughter, a quizzical look on her face. "Em?"

"The thing is, I was hoping…" Emily faltered. "If you're not busy today…"

"I am."

"Oh, okay."

"Tell me," Carla relented, seeing the disappointment on her daughter's face. "What do you want?"

"I want you to drive me to Portsmouth."

"Portsmouth?"

"Yeah," Emily nodded. "Portsmouth."

"Why Portsmouth?" Carla asked, before she twigged. "Oh, I get it, you want to see Peter."

"Yeah."

"What changed your mind?"

"I dunno," Emily shrugged her shoulders. "The letter."

"What?" Carla asked. "The letter you put in the bin?"

"So I took it out again! What of it?"

Carla merely smirked at her daughter.

"Mum!" Emily protested. "Stop it!"

"Am I not allowed to smile anymore?"

"No." Emily declared obstinately. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Are you going to drive me or not?"

Carla sighed. "Give me five minutes, yeah? I'll give your Uncle Liam a call, see if he can cover for me at the factory."

"Oh, thank you, mum!" Emily rushed to her mum and planted a kiss on her cheek. "You're the best."

* * *

"Adam!" Peter yelled from the kitchenette nestled in the corner of the bookies back office. "Where the hell are the teabags?"

"Ahhh…"

"Well?" Peter appeared in the doorway, glowering at Adam as he stood behind the counter serving a customer.

"There you go, mate," Adam said, handing over a franked ticket. "Good luck."

As soon as the customer had walked through the door and was safely out of earshot, Adam turned to Peter.

"The thing is…"

"What?" Peter asked impatiently. "What is this thing?"

"I used the last one," Adam confessed, nodding to the steaming mug of tea on the counter. "Sorry."

"You used the last tea bag?" Peter glared at his nephew, his voice low and measured, barely masking his anger.

"Why don't I...?" Adam suggested as he slowly crept to the front door. "I'll just pop to the shops."

"Yeah," Peter said. "Why don't you do that."

Peter sighed as Adam hurried out of the shop, feeling the injustice of the lack of tea bags deep in his soul. After pausing for just a moment, no more than a moment, he rushed back into the office and, sitting on his chair, reached down and opened the bottom drawer. He pulled out a bottle of vodka and, swiftly unscrewing the lid, lifted the bottle to his lips. But that was as far as he could go; he couldn't seem to tip his head back far enough to feel the heat of the vodka sliding down his throat. He wanted to feel the release that came as the vodka seeped into his bloodstream, the release from the pressure, from the regret, from the disappointment he saw in the eyes of everyone he cared about when they looked at him.

But he couldn't do it.

Instead he put the bottle firmly back down on the desk, opened his wallet and pulled out the photograph he had placed there the day Carla had given it to him. It was a photograph of Emily, of his daughter. She stood staring straight into the camera, her eyes smouldering, her hands on her hips, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth that was set firmly in a pout. Dressed in skinny black jeans, black heeled ankle boots, a slogan t-shirt and his own old black leather jacket, with her long black tresses tumbling down over her shoulders, she really was her mother's daughter. Peter couldn't help but smile with pride. His only regret was that he didn't own a photograph of his daughter's mother as well.

_Ting a ling a ling_

The bell that hung over the shop door pealed; a new arrival.

"That you, Adam?" Peter called out. "You got my teabags?"

When there was no answer, Peter hurriedly hid his vodka bottle back in the bottom drawer, rose to his feet and walked to the office door. He peeked through to the shop beyond to be confronted by a sight that brought an instant smile to his face.

"No teabags, I'm afraid," Emily said, standing awkwardly on the other side of the counter, Carla a step behind her. "Just a daughter wanting to see her father."

"Emily!" Peter walked to the other side of the counter, ready to wrap his arms around her in a welcome embrace, but he pulled back at the last second, uncertain of whether this gesture would make Emily feel uncomfortable.

"It's okay," Emily encouraged him as a flush crept up her cheeks. "You know, if you wanted to hug me."

Peter didn't hesitate another moment; he wrapped his arms around his daughter for the first time ever and held her close. But his eyes were for another entirely; with his eyes he looked over Emily's shoulder and straight into the eyes of her mother who gazed back at him, her eyes glistening with tears of happiness.

* * *

"So," Peter began as they all settled into chairs around his office desk. "You drove over four hours just to speak to me?"

"Well, it was mum who drove."

"But still," Peter couldn't help but laugh. "There are such things as phones."

"Aren't you happy to see me?"

"Of course I am," Peter reassured her. "I'm over the moon. I just hate the thought of putting your mum out."

"I was happy to do it," Carla said with a warm smile just for Peter.

"Alright," Adam said as he appeared in the doorway. "What have we got here?"

"Oh, Adam," Peter said with a proud grin. "This is my daughter, Emily, actually she'd be your cousin, is that right? Emily, this is my nephew, Adam."

"Hi, Adam."

"You alright, Emily?" Adam said, as he cast a glance at Carla. "That must make you Carla?"

"For my sins," Carla said, extending her hand to Adam. "Emily's mum."

An awkward silence descended over the foursome as they glanced at each other, Peter with a daft grin on his face, Emily suddenly shy and embarrassed, Carla and Adam both amused in equal measure.

"Peter," Carla suggested gently. "Why don't you and Emily go out, get a coffee or summat, have a bit of a catch up."

"Oh," Peter was surprised. "What about–"

"Adam's going to show me the ropes here, aren't you?" Carla turned to smile at Adam. "Train me up to be your Saturday girl."

"If you're sure?" Peter asked, anxious not to make the wrong move with either Carla or Emily.

"Go on," Carla nudged him along. "Get out of here. You two have got some catching up to do."

"Thanks," Peter said gratefully as he rose to his feet and turned to his daughter. "Shall we?"

* * *

Peter watched the waiter who had just delivered their coffees walk away before turning to Emily in earnest. "Before you say anything, I want to apologise. I had no right to say what I did about your dad. It was cruel and unnecessary. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Emily said, a sad smile on her face at the memory of her dad's betrayal and the way she found out about it. "I said some pretty hurtful things myself."

"So… we'll put it behind us, yeah?"

"Yeah," Emily nodded. "Besides, I don't care what anyone says, he did love mum. I know he did."

"I'm sure he did," Peter reassured her. "You know, just because we do things that hurt the people we love doesn't mean we don't love them."

An awkward silence descended over the pair yet again; they were both desperate not to say the wrong thing, to undo the progress they'd made in their relationship over the past hour.

"I'm surprised your mum let you off school for the day," Peter made an attempt at conversation and hoped for the best.

"It's the holidays."

"Oh, right."

Emily smiled at him; she couldn't help but be the tiniest bit amused at his awkwardness and uncertainty. If nothing else, it helped her overcome some of her own awkwardness.

"Do you enjoy it?" he pressed on, determined to engage her. "School I mean."

"Do I enjoy school?"

"Yeah."

"Does anyone?"

"I guess not," Peter conceded. "Although, if you want a good job, you have to –"

"Stop it," Emily commanded. "It's a bit soon for the dad lectures, don't ya think?"

"Sorry."

"Besides, I know what I want to do. And I don't need school to get there."

"Oh, right… So… what is it? This thing you want to do? I mean, only if you want to tell me, you don't have to if you don't want to."

"Fashion designer."

"Really? Wow, that's amazing." Peter said, impressed by her ambition. "But, I don't get it, why don't you need school?"

"It's not like being a doctor where you need to learn sciencey things. I just need experience, I just need to do it, you know," Emily explained. "And I'm fine with the designing part but I'm a little stuck with the pattern-making and the sewing."

"Can't your mum teach you?" Peter asked. "She's in the fashion industry, isn't she?"

"Mum?" Emily laughed. "She ain't got the patience for that! She'd throttle me sooner than teach me how to sew a straight line. Besides, it's been years since she's done that kind of work. Management don't get their hands dirty, no way."

Peter laughed; he couldn't imagine Carla mucking in with the factory girls. She was much more at home barking orders at them from the comfort of her office.

"Hayley," Emily continued. "You know Hayley Cropper that works at the factory?"

"Yeah."

"She's promised to teach me," Emily explained. "She's really nice. And I know mum thinks the world of her."

"I'd, umm… I'd love to see some of your designs. You know, if…"

"Only if you're serious," she said firmly. "If you're just saying that to be polite…"

"I'm serious."

So Emily dug in her bag that hung over the back of the chair she was sitting in and pulled out a notebook; she carried her notebook around with her everywhere, never knowing when inspiration would strike. With just a moment of hesitation, of self-doubt, she handed the notebook over to Peter. He took it from her with a smile and flicked through the pages full of sketches, some quick line drawings, a moment's work to get an idea on the page, along with detailed sketches of intricately designed garments.

Emily watched him closely, her anxiety growing with every page that he turned. Those designs were so personal to her, they felt like they were a part of her, a part of her soul that she was sharing with this almost stranger. But the opinion of this almost stranger suddenly mattered to her more than almost anyone else in her life.

Peter glanced up at Emily as he turned yet another page, a proud smile on his face.

"These are great."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Peter assured her. "I mean, I'm not qualified to judge on fashion but, the drawings… You've got a real talent there."

"Thanks," she accepted his praise with a wide smile. "I get it from my mum."

"Oh?"

"People think mum's out of her depth at the factory, that she doesn't know how to run a business, that she's only there because dad left his shares to her. But they don't know she's been doing this – you know, clothing manufacturing – since I was a baby. Years before she and dad got together."

"I didn't realise."

"Well, you know, we didn't have much when I was a kid. It was just me and mum. She couldn't live at home, obviously, so she had to support us all by herself. Dad and Uncle Liam, you see, they started out on the markets, they had a stall there. And mum had this idea to make baby clothes, like proper fancy ones like in the boutiques, and sell them from their market stall. I've, umm, I've got a photo if you want…"

At Peter's eager nod, Emily pulled her purse from her bag and opened it, proudly displaying to him a photograph of herself as a baby, dressed in a pair of designer dungarees, being held equally as proudly by Carla, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of market life.

"You see, I used to model the clothes for mum," Emily pointed out to Peter. "I keep this photo with me all the time. It's kind of, I dunno, inspiration for me. To remind me that mum did it, she did it all by herself, and so can I."

"You can do anything you set your mind to."

"You have to say that."

"Maybe," Peter conceded. "Doesn't mean it's not true. Hey," he continued. "You said something, what was it, that your mum couldn't stay at home once she had you. Why is that?"

"Oh, I, umm…" Emily stammered. "Forget I said anything."

"You do know you can tell me if there's something –"

"No," Emily insisted. "I'm not even meant to know. I only know because Uncle Rob told me."

"Uncle Rob? I've not heard of him. Is he –"

"Mum's brother. He's in prison."

"Right," Peter said. "What did he…?"

"Armed robbery. He was the getaway driver."

"You know my sister's inside for murder, don't you?"

"What? Is this a competition or summat?"

Peter laughed. "Sorry."

"He told me once how, umm…"

"What is it, love?"

"He said that George, that's mum and Uncle Rob's step-dad, he, umm… he was… not a very nice person."

"What does that mean? Not very nice?"

Emily sighed; she'd come this far, she may as well tell him the whole truth. "It means he used to knock them about," Emily revealed matter-of-fact, adding for maximum dramatic effect, "and he was a drug dealer."

"And, umm… what did their mum think about all this?"

"Not much," Emily said with a shrug of her shoulders. "She was passed out drunk most of the time according to Uncle Rob."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"Well, of course you didn't. How could you?"

"I wish I could've done something to help her. To help both of you."

"Don't say anything to her, that I told you any of this," Emily pleaded with him. "Please."

"Okay," Peter reassured her. "If you don't want me to."

"She wouldn't like me to know. She's proper protective about that kind of stuff."

"I won't say anything," Peter promised. "Talking of your mum, Adam's probably bored her half to death by now. So how about we rescue her, yeah? Maybe get some dinner, just the three of us?"

* * *

"That was great," Carla said, her appetite sated, as she leaned back in one of Peter's dining chairs. "Thank you."

"It was just a take away," Peter shrugged off her thanks. "Nothing fancy."

"Oh, no, we love a good Indian," Carla said, turning to Emily. "Don't we, love?"

"Don't really have much choice," Emily revealed with a grin. "Mum's not exactly what you'd call a domestic goddess."

"Oi!" Carla nudged her daughter playfully. "I can cook… you know, microwave meals."

"That's not cooking, mum."

"Well, next time, I'll cook you both a proper meal," Peter promised. "Home-cooked, whatever you want."

"Umm… aren't you forgetting something?" Emily asked. "We haven't had pudding."

"Oh, I, umm…" Peter stammered. "Sorry, I don't have anything in."

"There's no pudding?"

"Emily!" Carla chastised her daughter. "I'm sure you can survive one night without pudding."

"Why don't you…" Peter began, pulling a twenty pound note out of his wallet and handing it to Emily. "Pop down the shop; there's a twenty-four-hour place on the corner. And pick up whatever you fancy for pudding."

"On the corner, did you say?" Emily didn't need telling twice as she gleefully took the money from Peter's hand.

"Turn right outside the front door, you can't miss it."

"Back in five," Emily said as she hurried out the door.

"You know you're not getting any change from that twenty, don't you?"

"That's okay," Peter shrugged. "I reckon I owe her a fair bit of pocket money from over the years."

"Just don't let her take advantage," Carla warned as she rose to her feet and began to clear the dirty dishes from the dining table.

"Hey, leave that," Peter said, also standing to help clear the table. "You're my guest."

"Hush," Carla said. "It won't take a minute."

"I don't see it as taking advantage, by the way."

"What?"

"Giving Emily what I couldn't in the past. I'm just making up for what I should've done all along."

"Peter, it's not your fault you weren't around."

"Even so," Peter insisted. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to look after her. And you."

"I was more than capable of looking after myself, thank you very much," Carla declared. "And Emily. We were just fine."

"Oh, I believe you," Peter said with a smile. "Still, I wish I'd had the chance."

"Well, it's not too late."

"You've done a great job with her," Peter said. "She's a credit to you."

Carla smiled at Peter; her eyes locked on his, for a moment that lingered on. He reached out and caressed her cheek, his thumb grazing gently over her skin. She leaned into the palm of his hand, delighting in the warmth and comfort there. As if drawn by an irresistible magnetic force, they moved closer together, their faces, their lips, mere inches apart, moving closer, their breath, so hot on their faces, on their lips, in their mouths.

"There wasn't much choice," Emily announced as she walked through the front door. "So I hope you're happy with Viennetta."

"Sounds great, sweetheart," Carla said, quickly moving away from Peter. "Plates?"

"Ah, yeah," Peter said, sneaking a glance at Carla. "I'll just grab some."

Carla snuck a look at Peter as he reached up to an overhead cupboard; she couldn't help but notice the gentle ripple of his muscles underneath his short-sleeved black t-shirt, and the patch of skin that appeared at his lower back as the t-shirt rode up.

As Peter took down three bowls from the cupboard, he turned to Carla and briefly locked eyes with her again. Their gaze was full of mutual understanding; they both knew that this wasn't over.

* * *

"Sweetheart," Carla spoke softly to Emily who was stretched out on the sofa, a cushion clutched to her chest, and her eyelids drooping, weary after a long day of travelling and talking. "I'm gonna book us into a hotel, okay? I don't want to drive all the way home in the dark."

"'Kay," Emily murmured sleepily.

"Hey," Peter whispered urgently to Carla. "You don't have to go to a hotel, you're both welcome to stay here."

"Here?" Carla asked dubiously. "It's a one-bedroom flat, Peter."

"Look, you and Emily can take my bed, and I'll sleep on the sofa."

"I couldn't ask you to give up your bed."

"You don't have to ask," Peter said. "I'm offering. And besides," he added, nodding at Emily. "I don't think this one is going to make it to a hotel."

Carla gazed down at Emily for a moment, then back at Peter, who was anxiously awaiting her answer.

"Okay," she nodded her agreement. "Thank you."

"I'll just grab some blankets from the bedroom then it's all yours."

"Do you have a t-shirt or summat I could borrow?"

"Sure," Peter said. "Come with me and pick something out."

* * *

"Emily?" Carla crouched next to the sofa, her hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Ems?"

She turned to Peter, his arms full of blankets and pillows, ready for his night on the sofa.

"She's spark out," Carla revealed. "I don't think we can move her."

Peter didn't say a word; he simply draped a blanket over Emily, tucking the edges in just like he would have done when she was a little girl, if only… He placed a soft kiss on her temple and whispered to her, "goodnight, love, sleep tight."

"So... What now?" Carla asked as Peter rose to his feet.

"There's only one thing for it," Peter declared, an unmistakeable twinkle in his eye.

"Fine," Carla agreed with a sigh. "Just don't go getting any ideas, mister."

"Who?" Peter asked with a grin. "Me?"

* * *

Carla stretched her muscles slowly as waking consciousness slowly took over her body the next morning; she extended her legs and flexed her back, rolling her neck from side to side. As her eyelids fluttered open and shut, she felt a pair of arms reach around her body from behind; she felt a hand glide smoothly underneath the fabric of her borrowed t-shirt and gently fondle her breasts. And then she felt a penis, hard and erect, pressed into her lower back.

"Pe'er," she whispered, the frog in her throat making her voice little more than a croak.

"Mmmm…" Peter murmured as his hands continued to roam over her body and his penis rubbed along her back, and lower, down to her arse cheeks, back and forth.

"Peter!" Carla's tone was more urgent this time. She wriggled around until she was facing him. "Peter, wake up!"

"Oh, Carla," Peter gasped as he opened his eyes and realising what he was doing. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean…"

"Don't be sorry," Carla spoke in soothing rather than angry tones.

"What?" Peter was confused.

"I just wanted to make sure we were both awake before…"

"Before?"

"You know."

With that declaration over and done with, she pulled the t-shirt she was wearing over her head and tossed it onto the ground.

"Are you sure?"

"You asked me that once before, remember?" Carla posed the rhetorical question. "Sixteen years ago. I was sure then, just like I'm sure now."

Peter reached out and, raking his fingers through Carla's hair, and pulling her face gently towards his, kissed her; soft and full he kissed her, his lips pressed up against hers, his tongue sweeping across her lips, darting into her mouth.

He rolled gently on top of her; she instinctively wrapped her legs around him, pulling him down onto her, into her.

He slid his penis over the opening of her vagina then up and over her clit; he rubbed his tip over her, arousing her bud so that it began to throb as the blood pumped through it. He moved his tip back to her vagina and pressed it into her; just a little bit, just the tip. Then up again, he rubbed his penis over her clit, then back and this time he sunk his penis deep into her vagina, pressing hard into her until she gasped with the fullness of him inside her.

_Knock knock_

"Mum?" Emily's voice, muffled by the bedroom door, filtered through to the pair of lovers on the bed. "Mum? Are you awake?"

"Yes, darling," Carla called out to her daughter. "Give me a minute, yeah, and I'll be right out."

Carla looked at Peter, his face so close to hers, his body pressed against hers, his penis still inside her.

"I should go check on Emily," she said. "Sorry."

With a regretful sigh, he slowly pulled himself out of her and rolled away onto his back. He closed his eyes; he couldn't help but be disappointed. Sixteen years he'd waited, not daring to hope for another chance. For it to end like this, yes, he couldn't deny he was very disappointed. And then he felt it; her full, plump lips pressed against his. But only for a moment; she had a daughter to check on after all.

"Don't fret, Peter," Carla said, a teasing glint in her eye. "This isn't over. Not by a long shot."


	5. Chapter 5: Blood lines

**Chapter 5: Blood lines**

Carla folded up the last of her designer dungarees and placed them into the large plastic tub she'd bought especially to store her stock in overnight. As she fastened the lid securely onto the top, Liam leaned down and picked it up.

"Good to go?" he asked.

"Yeah," Carla nodded. "Thanks."

As Liam and Paul finished packing up the market stall, Carla turned her attention to her next task: counting out her takings for the day. Meticulously, she totted up the money and entered various figures into a small notebook she pulled from her bag: Total, Paul, George, Carla. She'd done it, she realised as she stared down at the running totals. She'd earned enough to pay George's weekly instalment, and with days to spare before their usual meeting on the football oval. She tucked George's money safely into a hidden compartment in her purse and held another small wad in the air.

"Paul!" she called out to the eldest Connor brother, holding out some notes for him. "Your cut."

"Much obliged," Paul said, whisking the notes out of Carla's hand and tucking them into his pocket. "You did well today."

"I told you I'd make it work."

"I never doubted you."

"Ha!" Carla laughed sarcastically. "Yeah, right."

"All sorted," Liam declared as he joined the pair. "So…" he glanced between Carla and Paul expectantly. "Who's up for a feed?"

"Not me, mate," Paul said as he shrugged on his new tailored black wool coat. "I've got a date."

"Don't tell me you're seeing that cow, Renee, again?" Liam said with a scowl.

"Renee?" Paul said with a sly grin. "Keep up, Liam. It's Laura this week. Alright, kids, have fun."

Liam shook his head after his brother as he disappeared into the still strong crowds milling around the market.

"My brother," Liam observed drily. "Has the worst taste in women."

"Give him a break," Carla scoffed. "You can't talk, can you? Who was that braindead bimbo you were dating? What was her name?"

"If you mean Jennifer, she wasn't braindead, she was…"

Carla raised an eyebrow which she, at only seventeen years of age, had already learned to shape and groom for optimum effect.

"Yeah, alright, she wasn't the brightest, but she was –"

"Blonde, big boobs, am I missing summat?" Carla asked. "Oh, yeah, I almost forgot, she thought you were funny. Says it all really."

"Forget about me," Liam dismissed Carla's keen observations. "I was talking about Paul. The women he attracts, they're only after one thing."

Carla shrugged, Liam's point having completely escaped her.

"His money!" Liam said, his frustration growing.

"But… he doesn't have any money."

"Not now, but with this place… he's well on his way," Liam said. "And you know how he likes to make out he's all that. Some big shot businessman pretending he's got more than he does. That's the only reason they're with him."

"And I guess you're not along for the ride either?" Carla asked pointedly. "Cashing in on his business. Using him to get ahead. I reckon that makes you just as bad as them."

"Ugh!" Liam furrowed his brow, annoyed at Carla's stubborn refusal to face facts. "There's no talking to you sometimes."

"What? Cause you can't handle the truth?" Carla shrugged her shoulders. "How about that feed then?"

"Hmmmppfff!" Liam snorted, still put out, but wanting his dinner nonetheless. "What d'ya fancy?"

"Umm… How about an Indian?"

"Indian?" Liam stared at her in confusion. "That's a bit rich for you innit? Normally can't talk you into nowt more fancy than the chippie."

"Well, I've had a very profitable week, haven't I?"

"So, it's your shout then, is it?"

"In ya dreams, mate."

* * *

"Do you want…?" Liam asked, praying Carla would say no, his hand outstretched to take the last piece of naan bread.

"Ooh, yes please," Carla said, snatching it from the torn paper bag, grinning back at Liam's stunned face.

"But…"

"Oh, poor ickle Lee-bugs. Did big bad Carla steal your din dins?" She laughed and tore the naan in half, handing a piece back to him. "Go on, I don't think I could stand to see that gormless face of yours if you didn't get some."

"Get in," he celebrated as he sopped up the remains of curry sauce that languished in the bottom of one of the plastic takeaway tubs laid out on the table between himself and Carla with the naan and stuffed the whole lot in his mouth.

Carla shook her head indulgently at Liam as he groaned with satisfaction, savouring this final morsel as long as he possibly could.

"Oh boy," he said, leaning back in his chair, one of two set either side of Carla's tiny dining come sewing table in her equally as tiny bedsit. "That was good."

"Yeah," Carla nodded in agreement. "It was a nice treat."

"What about Emily?" Liam asked, glancing at Carla's baby daughter as she lay in her baby bouncer, looking like she was trying to eat her own fists as she attempted to jam them into her mouth.

"What about her?"

"What's she having for dinner? Do you have special food for her?"

"She's a baby, Liam," Carla said. "She has milk. Breast milk."

"Oh…"

"Actually, she's due for a feed now."

Liam looked on, mortified, as Carla rose from her seat and, picking Emily up, settled down onto her bed, propped up by her pillows, with Emily in her arms, and proceeded to lift up her t-shirt.

"Whoa!" Liam gasped in horror, raising his hands as if to block the sight that unexpectedly confronted him.

"Relax, Liam," Carla chastised him. "It's perfectly natural."

"But I can see…"

"No more than if we were at the swimming pool."

"Do you want me to go?"

"Only if you're embarrassed."

"I'm not."

"Good. Then put your hand down and stop being weird."

Liam obediently lowered his hand but couldn't quite look directly at Carla.

"You're gonna have to get used to this, you know," Carla said. "When Michelle has her baby."

"That's different."

"How?"

"She's me sister, and you're…" But Liam couldn't quite find the words to describe exactly what Carla was to him.

"Did I hear someone talking bout me?" Michelle asked as she opened the door to the bedsit and waddled into the room, plonking herself down onto the edge of the bed with a sigh. "I am exhausted. Those stairs nearly did me in! Hello gorgeous," she cooed at Emily, caressing her cheek gently as the baby suckled on Carla's breast, staring up at the newcomer, before kissing Carla fondly on the cheek. "What've you three been up to?"

"We had some Indian," Liam explained, nodding to the remnants scattered about the table. "You want some?"

Michelle peered over at the food with mild interest before slumping back down. "Nah, I don't think I've got the energy to eat."

"You alright, babes?" Carla asked. "You seem a bit out of sorts."

"Well, what do you expect?" Michelle snapped. "I'm huge. And hot. And disgusting."

"Alright, no need to bite me head off."

"Sorry," Michelle sighed. "I'm just… annoyed if you must know."

"About…?"

"Mum and dad."

"Ah, it all starts to make sense," Liam grinned, explaining to Carla. "They've been fighting non-stop for weeks now."

"I had to get outta there, they were driving me crazy!"

"What did they do this time?"

"They're refusing to let Dean move in."

"I told you, wait til after the baby's here," Liam suggested. "They'll probably be begging for the extra help then."

"Why should she?" Carla demanded to know.

"What d'ya mean," Liam asked.

"Why should she let them call the shots? It's your life, Chelle. Your baby. Yours and Deans. So if you wanna live together to raise your baby, then just do it."

"But it's their house."

"So get your own."

"I can't get my own place," Michelle laughed at the idea. "I'm too young."

"You're sixteen," Carla said. "Same age as me when I got this place."

"The money…"

"Dean's got a job, yeah?"

"You know he does."

"Well then, trust me, you can afford it," Carla said. "Besides, nothing's too high a price to pay for your freedom. Because you know what your folks are like, Chelle. If you stay in that house, they will interfere in every single thing you do, every day, every move you make, they will be there. You know I'm right."

"She is right, Chelle," Liam interjected. "I love mum and dad and all but… they can be a little overbearing."

"I'll think about it," Michelle promised. "Ooh…"

"Chelle?" Carla looked at her best friend with concern as she held Emily to her shoulder, alternating between patting her back gently and rubbing it, trying to entice a burp out of her.

"Yeah?"

"You okay?"

"Umm…" Michelle breathed deeply, in and out. "I, umm… I don't know."

"How long?" Carla asked. "How long have you been feeling it?"

"On and off," Michelle confessed sheepishly. "A couple of hours maybe."

"And you didn't think–? Nevermind." It was Carla's turn to take a deep breath. "Can you walk?"

Michelle gingerly swung her legs over the edge of the bed and tried to push herself up and to her feet, but a twinge of pain scuppered her efforts.

"I don't think so," Michelle said, shaking her head, her eyes wide with the fear of something long imagined and secretly dreaded finally coming to pass.

"What's going on?" Liam asked, his eyes darting about the room as he listened in confusion to the conversation between the two friends, the panic beginning to rise within him.

"Your sister's having a baby, you muppet!" Carla yelled at him. "Now, make yourself useful and call for an ambulance."

"Where?"

"There's a phone box on the corner, next to the offie."

"Right," Liam jumped to his feet, relieved to be doing something useful. "Will you two be okay?"

"Go!" Carla ordered him before softening. "Don't worry, hey. I've done this before. It's a breeze."

Liam smiled at Carla, grateful to her for taking control.

"Oh, and Liam?"

"Yeah?"

"Call Dean, yeah? Let him know what's happening."

"What about mum and dad?"

"If you must."

With Liam finally out of the way, Carla focused her attention on Michelle.

"You doin' alright, babes?"

"I'm scared, Car," Michelle admitted.

"There's nothing to be scared of, darlin', you're gonna be just fine."

"Does it hurt?"

"Honestly?"

"Oh," Michelle faltered, wondering if it was best to go on in ignorance. "I don't know. No? Yes? Yes, tell me the truth."

"Just take all the drugs they offer you and you'll be just fine," Carla reassured her. "Besides, all the pain in the world is worth it when you get to take home your baby. Your son." Carla turned to look at Emily and immediately her face softened with the love she felt for that small creature, that part of her heart that was out there living in the world. "Everything's worth it."

* * *

"He's perfect," Michelle stated the fact true to all new mother's as she gazed down lovingly at her son cradled in her arms. "You were right, Car, he is worth it."

"What?" Carla grinned at her from her position perched on the end of Michelle's hospital bed. "All thirty-one hours of labour?"

"Every second."

"And what do you think of your nephew, Lee-bugs?" Carla nudged Liam gently in the ribs as he sat next to her on the bed.

"He's a Connor," Liam declared as he looked proudly at his sister and the newborn in her arms. "That makes him pretty damn perfect to me."

"Where's Dean?" Carla asked. "I thought he'd be here?"

"Oh, he's gone home with mum and dad to pick up some stuff for me and clothes and nappies and what not for this one."

"And how is he finding fatherhood so far?"

"He's smitten," Michelle said with a smile. "As soon as he laid eyes on his son, he said he'd never felt anything like it."

"He's right," Carla agreed, glancing at Emily, asleep in her pram by the bed. "You know, I can't even remember what life was like before she came along. Being a mother, it…"

"It changes everything," Michelle finished her thought. "Yeah, it does."

"I hear there's a little man here who wants to meet his Uncle Paul."

Michelle smiled broadly at her eldest brother as he entered the room, a huge bunch of flowers in his hand, and approached the bed with a wide smile.

"Hey, bubba," Michelle cooed at her son. "This is your Uncle Paul. You wanna say hello? Thanks for coming," she added, accepting his kiss on her cheek. "You didn't need to, I know you're losing money by being here."

"What's a few quid over meeting this guy," he gushed, before nodding to the pair perched on the end of the bed. "Besides, it was lonely on the stall without this pair's constant yammering."

"Yeah, right," Liam scoffed. "Bet you couldn't wait to see the back of us."

"I missed this one especially," Paul murmured as he leaned over Emily's pram, reaching out and gently caressing her cheek with his finger.

"Are you going soft or summat?" Liam asked, exchanging amused glances with Carla and Michelle. "When did you get so broody?"

"Broody?" Paul shook his head in protest. "No, it's just having a cute lil baby round is good for business."

"Ah," Liam said. "Of course, it's always profits first with you, innit?"

"You know me so well, little brother." Paul turned back to Michelle. "Well then, have you given laddo a name yet? Personally, I think Paul is a nice strong name for boy."

"Ha ha, very funny," Michelle scoffed. "Well, I guess you may as well know. We've decided to call him Ryan."

"Aww, that's lovely, Chelle," Carla said. "Little Ryan."

"Nice job, sis," Liam added his praise.

"Welcome to the Connor clan, Ryan," Paul spoke sincerely to the tiny baby in his sister's arms. "Hold on tight, kid, you're in for a bumpy ride."

* * *

"Your mum does my head in," Carla ranted as she pushed Emily's pram down the hospital corridor, Liam walking by her side. "Did you see the way she looked at me when they came in?"

"Don't worry about her," Liam said. "She's a snob is all."

"I don't know why, yous live on the same crappy estate as me."

"I never said she was rational," Liam said with a smile. "Come on, a bit of air will do you good."

"Yeah," Carla agreed. "It was getting a little crowded in that room. Can you…?"

Liam obligingly held a door open for Carla and Emily to pass through when they almost collided with a couple approaching from the other end of the corridor.

"Sorry," the man mumbled before recognising who it was standing in front of him. "Carla?"

"Alright, Johnny," Liam greeted his distant relative, Johnny Connor and his wife, Lou. "You come to see our Chelle?"

"Yeah," he murmured, his eyes darting across to Liam them back to Carla and down to Emily, adjusting his stance to get a better peek of the infant.

"You must be a very proud uncle," Lou interjected when she realised Johnny wasn't going to continue the conversation. "Congratulations."

"Thanks, Lou," Liam smiled at the woman who, despite being only distantly related by marriage, was very much a part of their lives; the Connor clan was renowned for sticking together. "Are you okay, Johnny?"

But Johnny ignored Liam; his entire focus was on Carla and Emily.

"This your little one, is it?" Johnny asked Carla, peering into Emily's pram. "What's her name again?"

"Emily."

"Emily," Johnny repeated absently. "She's beautiful. Congratulations."

"Thanks."

"No really," he said, looking Carla directly in the eye for the first time. "Congratulations."

"Yeah, okay," Carla said awkwardly as Johnny continued to stare at her. "I'll seeya."

* * *

"Your Johnny was a little, umm… strange just now, don't ya think?" Carla asked Liam as they sat side-by-side on the wooden bench in the small park opposite the hospital.

"I dunno, I didn't notice anything."

"You wouldn't."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, Liam, that you're a bloke and blokes don't notice things unless you spell it out for them using very short words so they can understand."

"You should be nicer to me, you know."

"Why?" Carla asked, a cheeky grin on her face. "Wouldn't want you getting a big head or summat."

"No chance of that with you around."

Carla laughed, an intoxicatingly dirty giggle that couldn't help but make Liam smile. He watched her, the smile on her face as they exchanged friendly banter, the love in her eyes when she gazed down at her daughter. He traced the lines of her face; those razor-sharp cheekbones, that strong jaw, those perfectly shaped eyebrows framing eyes that, when they looked at you, felt like they would burn straight through you.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was leaning forward and kissing her softly on the lips.

"Liam!" Carla protested as she pulled away from him in shock. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I would've thought that was obvious."

Carla merely shrugged her shoulders and shook her head; none of this was obvious to her.

"I was kissing you," he explained.

"Yes, I did notice that part, you idiot. The question is, why?"

"I just, I dunno, I wanted to."

"You wanted to?" Carla was lost for words, she didn't know what Liam was playing at. Was he being serious? Was he joking around? Did he actually have feelings for her?

"You know what?" he whispered, his face suddenly close to hers again. "I still want to. I still want to kiss you."

And so he did. He kissed her again. And this time, she didn't pull away.

* * *

_Stop ignoring me, Peter! Are you still annoyed because we got interrupted? Because that's very immature. Call me._

Carla re-read the text message. The language was a little bit strong, a little bit accusatory, but she didn't care. No one went radio silence on Carla Connor without consequences. She hit send.

"Have you heard from your father recently?" Carla looked up at her daughter who was sitting opposite her at one of the tables in Roy's Rolls. "Peter, I mean."

But Emily didn't answer, she was too engrossed in the design she was sketching, the notes she was adding around the side, the arrows pointing to the detailing on the waist, the neckline, everywhere she thought she needed extra information.

"Emily!"

"Hmmm…?" Emily murmured.

"Can you please at least look at me when I'm talking to you!" Carla said, reaching out and placing her hand over Emily's notebook.

"Mum!" Emily protested. "I was working on that!"

"I'm trying to have a conversation with you," Carla said. "Did you hear me?"

"Of course I did."

"What did I say?"

"Ummm…"

"I asked if you'd heard from your dad recently."

"Oh," Emily screwed up her nose as she thought about the question. "Umm… maybe three, four days ago. Why?"

"No reason."

"Hayley!" Emily called out to Hayley Cropper as she emerged from the door leading to the upstairs flat. "Come here."

Hayley, amiable as always, ambled over to Emily and Carla's table.

"Good morning, Mrs Connor," she said, nodding to Carla before turning to Emily. "Morning, Emily. Is that –?"

"The design I want us to work on, yeah," Emily nodded eagerly. "You are still alright to teach me, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes," Hayley said, while glancing nervously at Carla. "That is, if it's still alright with your mum to use the factory machines after hours?"

"Of course, Hayley," Carla said with a smile. "Just don't let this one take advantage of your generosity."

"Oh, Mrs Connor! Emily would never." Hayley laughed nervously. "Anyway, I better be off, get to the factory. Are you…?"

"Liam's opening up," Carla explained. "I'll be along shortly."

"Right you are," Hayley said.

"I'll drop my sketch off when I'm done," Emily said. "So you can study it? Figure out a pattern?"

"I'm looking forward to it," Hayley smiled awkwardly at mother and daughter before retreating to the door.

"I mean it," Carla reiterated her warning once Hayley had gone. "I don't want you taking advantage of Hayley. She's far too nice for her own good, that one."

"She offered," Emily protested.

"That's not the point."

"Fine," Emily rolled her eyes at her mum. "I promise not to take advantage of Hayley Cropper. You happy now?"

Carla merely shook her head, despairing that her daughter would ever take her seriously on this or any other subject, while Emily simply grinned back at her.

"You alright to get to school?"

"Can't you drive me?"

"No, you can catch the bus."

"But mum!"

"Sorry, sweetheart, but I've got an important meeting to prepare for. Speaking of which," Carla gathered her things together and rose to her feet. "I better get to the factory before your Uncle Liam sends out a search party."

* * *

"You're late," Liam said as Carla sauntered through the factory office door a few minutes later.

"Late for what?" she asked, turning to face him, an innocent look plastered on her face.

"Work," Liam said, rolling his eyes. "I had to open up on me own."

"Did something happen? Did the world come to an end? Did the roof cave in? No. So get off my back."

"We're meant to be partners, Carla."

"Shhh…" Carla raised her finger to her lips as she sat down at her desk. "I'm busy, Liam."

"Doing what?"

"I've got a very important client meeting to prepare for."

"Who? You didn't mention anything."

"That's because I don't need you, Liam. I can handle this one on my own. Now why don't you be a good boy, and make sure the girls are behaving themselves."

Carla stared at Liam, her eyebrow raised and her eyes glancing meaningfully at the office door, almost pushing him out with the sheer force of her will. Liam, never a match for Carla's stubbornness, pigheadedness he called it, shook his head and stormed out of the office without another word to or glance at his business partner.

Carla smirked at the door Liam had just passed through and turned her attention to the file in front of her, titled 'Gordons'. Paul had talked about Tony Gordon many times during the course of their marriage; talked of his business prowess and the importance of courting him on the golf course, citing the profit figures his business could bring to Underworld as an excuse to spend many hours down the club. Carla had met him once or twice. A handsome, arrogant man; charismatic and self-assured. She was looking forward to this meeting.

* * *

"The girls," Carla nodded towards the Underworld seamstresses busy at their machines, accompanied as always by a loud cacophony of shrieked gossip and radio singalongs. "Don't worry, the louder their gobs, the faster their fingers. It's a scientific fact."

"I don't doubt it," Tony Gordon replied in his still-strong Scottish twang despite his years of residence in Manchester. "I can tell you would be a hard taskmistress."

"I have my moments," Carla smiled suggestively.

"I bet you do," Tony reflected Carla's smile, his intense gaze holding Carla's.

"So," Carla broke the spell she was in danger of falling under. "Shall we head back to the office and talk figures? Oh, hold on, I'm sorry." Carla pulled her ringing mobile from her pocket and stared at the screen: Peter.

"Is it important?" Tony asked impatiently.

"Umm…" Carla stared at the screen a moment longer, wanting to answer it, to hear his voice, but wanting at the same time to punish him for ignoring her. "No," she settled on ignore and rejected the call. "It can wait."

"Good," Tony said. "Then I suggest we adjourn to, what was that relic I saw on the corner? The Rovers Return? Why don't we hammer out a deal over a bottle of wine?"

"Yeah," Carla smiled at him. "Why not. Liam!" she called out to her business partner who was larking about with the girls from packing. "You're in charge, yeah? Try not to ruin us before clocking off time."

* * *

"You don't mind mixing business with a little pleasure, do you?" Tony asked Carla as they strolled the short distance from the factory to the Rovers.

"You don't know me very well if you have to ask that."

"The only thing I really know about you, Carla," Tony said with a smile as he held open the door of the Rovers for her. "Is that you made that husband of yours the luckiest bastard down the club."

"Ooh, so cheesy," Carla played up her grimace for his benefit. "It that a Scots thing?"

"Carla!"

The sound of that familiar voice halted Carla in her tracks; she turned to face him, Peter, as he closed the front door of No. 1 and approached her.

"Peter!" Carla gasped in surprise. "What are you –?"

"I was trying to call you."

"I was busy."

"Carla?" Tony's question came as more of a command from his position propping open the door to the pub.

"Yeah, listen, Tony, do you mind ordering me a red wine? I won't be a moment. Alright? Thank you." Carla watched Tony disappear inside the Rovers before turning to Peter, the appeasing, even simpering, smile she'd just used on her client fading as she turned to face her… she wasn't sure what Peter was to her. Was he a friend? A would-be lover? Partner even? "What are you playing at, Peter? Couldn't spare a minute to reply to my messages? Hmm?"

"Is he…?" Peter asked, his gaze fixed on the Rovers door.

"He's business."

"Right," Peter breathed a sigh of relief.

"Who's signature I'm trying to get on a big order, so… explain yourself, Peter. Where have you been?"

"Umm…" Peter took a deep breath and let it out in a long, slow exhale.

"Oh, for god's sake, Peter, if you're not going to tell me where you've been, then I've got –"

"I was taking my son to his mother's funeral."

"You what?"

"My son, Simon," Peter said. "His mother died."

"Oh… I'm sorry," Carla faltered, in shock at this unexpected revelation. "You never mentioned anything about a son."

"Yeah, well, if you knew me back then… Look, I'm not exactly proud of the way I behaved and so when Lucy –"

"Lucy?"

"Simon's mum," Peter explained. "When Lucy took Simon to Australia to live… She hated me back then, for good reason, don't get me wrong, but when she told me I'd never see him again, I guess I drew a line under everything. Moved on with my life."

"Until she realised she was dying and needed her son's feckless excuse of a father to raise him, is that how it was?"

"Pretty much," Peter nodded with a shrug of his shoulders. "So there you have it, not exactly father of the year material, am I?"

"Tell me, Peter, just how many kids do you have floating around out there?"

"Just the two."

"That you know of."

"Hey, don't be like that," Peter pleaded in soft tones, reaching out to take Carla's hand in his own. Despite her sudden and overwhelming misgivings about him, she didn't pull her hand away; she couldn't resist the plea in his voice, in his eyes, the touch of his skin against hers. "I really want him to meet you and Emily," Peter continued, his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand. "You know, since you're his family."

"That's a stretch."

"Not really," Peter dared to contradict her. "He's my family, Emily's my family, you're –"

"I'm nothing to you."

"You're everything," Peter insisted. "Please, love, come round to the flat tonight, you and Emily."

"The flat?"

"Oh, yeah," Peter grinned. "That's my other bit of news. I've bought the bookies and the flat above."

"You mean…?"

"I'm sticking around," Peter said. "I've got a family to think about now. A future."

"Okay," Carla nodded.

"You'll come?"

"It'll be good for Emily to meet her half-brother."

"So, tonight then?"

"Yeah," Carla smiled at him and turned to enter the Rovers when Peter, whose grip on her hand had not relaxed, pulled her back towards him. With one hand, he gripped her by the waist and pulled her close to him; with the other hand, he snaked his fingers around her head, raking through her hair, drawing her lips to his, and kissed her. It was a brief kiss, but intense, passionate, full of unspoken meaning.

"I'll see you tonight," she muttered as she broke away from the kiss and hurried into the Rovers, blushing slightly as she remembered the feeling of Peter's arm around her body, the strength with which he had held her close to him, his tongue that had darted into her mouth as his lips swept over hers, and of the look in his eyes as they had parted from each other.

"Carla!"

The sound of Tony's voice called her back to reality, the sight of the drinks on the table in front of him a reminder of the extensive flirting she would have to do to seal this deal, when all she wanted to do was think about Peter, about that kiss, about what it would mean, not just to her, but to Emily, to have another child of Peter's in their lives.

* * *

"You must be Simon," Emily smiled at the curly haired lad, no more than four years' old, sitting on the sofa, who simply nodded in response, suddenly shy in the presence of these new arrivals. "Do you know who I am?"

Simon glanced up at Peter, eagerly searching his dad' face for some kind of cue.

"You remember I told you about Emily, don't you Si?"

"You're my sister," he said, turning back to Emily with a smile.

"Half-sister," Peter corrected him. "And this is Emily's mum," he added, nodding towards Carla. "Her name's Carla."

"Hello Carla," Simon greeted Carla cheerfully.

"It's very nice to meet you, Simon."

"Who's this then?" Emily squeezed the white paw of the chocolate brown teddy bear Simon was clutching, sinking down into the soft cushions of the sofa next to her half-brother.

"Teddy," Simon said as he cuddled his loyal friend close to his chest. "Ted for short."

"He's a very handsome bear," Emily observed sincerely. "Hello Ted."

"Hello Emily," Simon said in a put-on voice as he waved Ted's paw in Emily's direction.

"They seem to be getting on well," Carla said to Peter as they both leaned against the kitchen countertop, watching their children get to know each other.

"Oh, Carla," Peter sighed. "I am so relieved. Honestly, I thought…"

"They're kids, they take these things in their stride."

"What about the adults?"

"I'm not going to lie, Peter," Carla said. "Finding out I was just one in a long line of baby mamas –"

"Don't exaggerate, Carla, two is not a long line."

"It feels like it."

"I'm sorry," Peter said. "But, having Simon in my life now, it doesn't change how I feel about Emily."

"I know."

"Or you."

Carla turned to look at him; just like that night back in '91, she was drawn to this man, like a magnetic force. But what did she really know about him? Could she risk her heart on a man who, much like Paul, seemed to have a great love for women and lots of them.

"About Portsmouth…" Carla began.

"We've got some unfinished business."

"We got a bit carried away, didn't we?"

"No," Peter disagreed. "I happen to think we didn't go far enough."

"Not everything's about sex, Peter."

"I know that," he said. "That's not what I meant. Well, maybe a little bit. But you can't fault me for that, can you? You do remember exactly where I was when we got interrupted?"

"Oh, I haven't forgotten," Carla said, blushing slightly as she relived the moment in her mind. "But, Peter, I feel like that's all you're interested in. It's a pattern with you."

"You make me sound like some kind of sleazy predator."

"No, Peter, I don't. I just… I don't really know you. My whole experience with you is almost entirely founded on sex."

"Well, then, get to know me," he pleaded with her. "Si! How do you fancy staying at Grandad Ken and Grandma Deirdre's tomorrow night?"

"Yeah!" Simon agreed enthusiastically.

"Then you and me can go out," he spoke again to Carla in those low pleading tones that made her weak. "Maybe get some dinner, get to know each other a little more."

"I could look after him instead," Emily suggested. "Would you like that, Simon?"

"Please, dad," Simon begged, his little facing lighting up at the prospect of spending some time with Emily, with whom he had already formed a solid sibling bond. "I want Emily."

"What do you think?" Peter asked Carla.

"Are you sure, Ems?" Carla asked her daughter.

"I offered, didn't I?" Emily replied, rolling her eyes at her mum. "Besides, it'll be fun, won't it kid?"

"Yeah!" Simon said, excited at the thought. "Can we get pizza?"

"Whatever you want," Emily promised, before turning to her mum. "Well? You can't disappoint him now, can you. That'd be cruel."

"Fine," Carla capitulated. "I can see I'm outnumbered."

"Yay!"

Emily and Simon celebrated together while Peter looked on fondly at his two children. Carla glanced across at Peter, noting the love in his eyes as he watched Emily and Simon. Maybe, she thought, just maybe she could trust this man with more than just her body.

* * *

_Bzzzz_

"That'll be the pizza," Emily said as she pulled off her knees the blanket she and Simon were snuggled under on the sofa while they watched a movie, dislodging as she did so an empty crisp packet. "Did you finish the whole packet?"

Simon giggled, unable to hide his guilt.

"You greedy guts!" she said, ruffling his curls affectionately, before walking towards the door. "I guess you won't be needing any pizza then."

"Hey!" Simon yelled in protest, but she was gone, running lightly down the stairs to collect their dinner. It wasn't long before he could hear her footsteps traipsing back up the stairs and he watched the door eagerly for her to reappear. "Are you still sitting there? Go on, wash your hands, or you get no dinner."

Simon obediently ran to the bathroom to wash his hands while Emily poured them each a drink. Hurrying back into the living room, Simon scooted straight back under the blanket on the sofa, drawing the fabric nice and snug around his chest.

"What are you doing?" Emily asked. "We're about to have dinner."

"Can we eat it on here?" Simon asked, his big brown eyes pleading with his big sister. "So we can watch the movie. Please."

Emily tried her hardest, but there was no way she could resist that face, that cute little face of the brother she never knew she had, but suddenly meant more to her than she could yet understand.

"Don't tell your dad, okay?"

"Okay," Simon grinned at her conspiratorially, lifting up the blanket for Emily to snuggle under while they ate their pizza straight from the box.

* * *

"This is nice," Carla said, glancing about the restaurant, with its simple but elegant décor, the crisp white linen covering each table, the heavy stainless steel cutlery and delicate white china rimmed with silver, and the ambient music filling the space thanks to the solo pianist perched in front of the grand piano in the corner of the room.

"Only the best for you," Peter replied in his low, smooth tones, his eyes watching with satisfaction as Carla raised a forkful of her dinner to her mouth, sea bass steamed with Thai aromatics and a spicy green papaya salad, closing her eyes as she chewed the tasty morsels in her mouth. He in turn took another bite of his dinner, a more conventional choice of fillet steak cooked medium rare, along with potatoes dauphinoise and steamed green beans.

"I hope you don't think I need impressing with grand gestures," Carla said. "I came from nothing, Peter, I don't need money spent on me to have a good time."

"Noted," Peter replied, his gaze fixed on Carla's.

"I do appreciate it though," she smiled at him. "Thank you."

"Better than eating chips on the street, ey?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that."

* * *

Simon kneeled backwards on the sofa, leaning forward against the backrest as he watched Emily in the kitchen clearing up the remnants of their dinner.

"Emily?" he asked nervously.

"What is it kid?" Emily responded absently as she wrapped the leftover pizza in some cling film and popped it into the fridge.

"He's your dad too, isn't he?"

"I'm sorry, Si?" Emily stopped and stared at Simon. "What are you saying?"

"You called dad 'your dad', like he was just mine and not yours."

"Oh," Emily said, realising she would have to fill in the blanks of her family tree. She hurried back to the sofa and, pulling Simon down onto the cushions next to her, wrapped her arm around his shoulder. "The thing is, Si, I've already got a dad. He's not my real dad, but he was the one who helped my mum raise me, and I loved him like he was my real dad."

"Where is he?"

"He died," Emily said; the thought of her dad's fate still had the power to bring tears to her eyes in an instant. "A couple of months ago."

"Like my mum," Simon said. "She died too."

"I'm sorry, Si," Emily said, squeezing his shoulder gently. "You must really miss her."

Simon simply nodded, he couldn't speak the words yet, of how much he missed his mum, but Emily understood; she felt exactly the same about her dad.

"I miss my dad, too," she said, her voice catching in her throat. "You know, I didn't even meet Peter– I mean, your dad, our dad, until quite recently. Kind of like you. What do you think of him so far?"

Simon shrugged. "He's okay, I guess."

"It takes some getting used to, doesn't it?" Emily asked with a smile. "A new dad. A whole new family."

"I like Grandad Ken and Grandma Deirdre."

"Yeah," Emily nodded. "Me too."

"And Grandma Blanche is funny."

"That's one word for her," Emily said under her breath. "You know what, Si? I'm really happy you've come to live here. I always wanted a brother or sister."

They sat there for a moment in silence, brother and sister, in this strange place, united by the same journey they had both embarked on, the journey of getting to know a father neither had known before, of making room for him in their lives, and in their hearts.

"You know what we need, don't you, Si?" Emily broke the silence with forced cheerfulness.

"What?"

"Ice cream!"

* * *

"Can I ask you something personal?" Carla asked as she peered across the table at Peter.

"Umm… sure?" Peter was suddenly nervous; he had many skeletons of his past life and he would rather they remained dead and buried.

"I was curious about Simon's mum," Carla stammered, unsure of whether she was taking liberties, asking such personal questions. "About you and her, what went wrong."

"It's not a pleasant story," he admitted.

"You mean, it doesn't make you look good?"

"It makes me look terrible," Peter said. "Because I was terrible. The worst kind of man you can imagine."

"Well then," Carla said. "Consider me warned."

"Okay," Peter said, taking a deep breath before continuing. "I was engaged to Shelley."

"I thought her name was Lucy?"

"It was," Peter said with a grimace. "Like I said, I was engaged to Shelley when I started an affair with Lucy. But then Lucy got pregnant so… I did the right thing. I married her."

"Right," Carla said. "What's so terrible about that?"

"I didn't break up with Shelley," Peter confessed.

"Oh, I see."

"I married her as well."

"You're right, you are terrible."

"You don't seem too surprised."

"Oh, Michelle told me all about the bigamy," Carla stated matter-of-fact. "I just didn't know the details."

"And now you do?" Peter asked anxiously. "I expect you want nothing more to do with me."

"We all make mistakes," Carla said with a casual shrug of her shoulder.

"That's very magnanimous of you."

"As long as you've learnt from it," Carla continued. "Don't keep making the same mistakes."

"I have," Peter promised. "So, since we're talking frankly…"

"What?"

"Tell me about Paul," he said. "I only know the bad bits. But there must've been good times as well?"

"Yeah," Carla nodded. "Of course there were. I mean, we were together ten years. He was my first proper boyfriend, you know. I didn't really have much time for men after I had Emily. The funny thing is, I think he fell in love with Emily before he fell in love with me. He always came across as business first, not interested in kids, but then… I dunno what happened. I was working their market stall with them, Paul and Liam's I mean, and I'd bring Emily with me, and I guess over time… I don't know. He always went out of his way to spend time with her. He had a real soft spot for her. It wasn't just her though. Ryan as well. He doted on Ryan."

"His nephew?"

"Yeah," Carla said. "He was born a couple of months after Emily. It was actually while I was babysitting for Michelle and Dean, that's Ryan's dad, that me and Paul had our first kiss."

"I'm glad," Peter said. "That he was there for Emily, and for you, when I couldn't be."

"I loved him so much," Carla said, the tears springing to her eyes. "But I always felt…"

"What?"

"That I loved him more than he loved me," Carla confessed sadly. "Turns out I was right."

"Why would you say that?"

"Because, Peter, he paid prostitutes for sex. For three years. And he wasn't doing that because he wasn't getting any at home, far from it. Why would he do that, hey? Unless he was unhappy with me?"

"I don't know, love," Peter said, reaching out and placing his hand gently over Carla's. "I'm sorry."

* * *

"Night, baby bro," Emily kissed Simon on his forehead as he slept, clutching his teddy close to his chest. She padded softly to the bedroom door and, after taking one final look at her brother, switched off the bedroom light, leaving the almost enchanted glow from the night light on the bedside table as the only source of illumination.

Closing the door softly, Emily re-entered the living area and glanced around, hands on hips, wondering what to do. She didn't want to risk switching the television back on for fear of waking Simon.

Her eye caught the stack of boxes in the corner of the room; the remnants of Peter and Simon's possessions that were as yet unpacked and put away in their new home. She knew she shouldn't, but her natural curiosity got the better of her. She wandered over to the stack of boxes and began carefully opening them, one by one, and peeking inside, hoping somehow to get a better understanding of her father.

The first few boxes contained nothing of interest; clothes, shoes, a collection of hideous ties, too wide and too shiny to be fashionable in 2007.

"Oh, hell no!" Emily grimaced as she held one of the ties in her hand. "We can do better than this."

The next box contained an eclectic mix of curios; little ornaments, some made of pottery, others carved out of wood; a small box filled with old lighters, the fluid long gone, but the empty shell for some inexplicable reason held onto; and a shoebox filled with a mixture of postcards and photographs.

Emily flicked through the stacks of cards and photos, pulling them out one-by-one and studying the pictures on them. There were postcards from all over the world, never sent to anyone, but simply with a handwritten date on the back. The photographs were mainly of young men, Emily assumed Peter and his mates, again with dates written on the back in the same handwriting as on the postcards.

Emily remembered her mum talking about her father being in the navy when they met. These postcards and photographs, they must be of all the places he had travelled to with the navy.

Emily had an idea; she began to flick through the postcards and the photographs, looking on the back at the handwritten dates, looking for one date in particular, a date in 1991. The year her father and mother had met. The year she had been conceived.

She found it. South Korea. December 1991. Her father had been in South Korea when she was born.

She studied the face of the man staring back at her from the faded photograph in her hand. Instantly familiar, yet like a stranger. It was definitely him; it was the same eyes, the same hair, the same dimples in his cheeks, and he had the same way of dangling a cigarette from the corner of his mouth. Yes, this was her father.

She took the photograph and, not taking her eyes off it for a second, walked over to the sofa and curled up nice and cosy on it, pulling the blanket over her right up underneath her chin, studied the face of the man in the photograph. She thought about this man; this man who had spent one night with her mum before leaving her without any way of contacting him. She wondered what he had thought of her mum; what he had really thought of her. She hoped that her mum had meant more to him than just a bit of fun while he was on leave; she couldn't bear the thought that her life had started as something cheap, something he had wanted to forget.

* * *

"Hey," Peter grabbed Carla's hand and pulled her towards him as they stood on the doorstep of his new home. "Don't go in yet."

"Why?" Carla asked, a cheeky grin on her face; she knew exactly why he didn't want her to go inside.

"Because this."

Peter placed his hands on her face, one on each of her cheeks, and drew her to him, her lips onto his lips. He reached his arms around her waist and pressed her body closer to him as her arms wrapped instinctively around his neck, her fingers raking through his hair, her fingernails gently skimming over his neck, as her lips parted, an invitation for his tongue to enter.

He pushed her up against the door, his hands moving around her body to her tummy and then up to her breasts, massaging them gently through the delicate fabric of her top.

"Hello?" Emily's voice crackled through the intercom.

Carla and Peter froze, fearful of what Emily might have overheard.

"Hello!?" Emily's voice was a little louder this time, with an edge to it, a hint of rapid anger. "Is anybody there?"

"It's just us, sweetheart," Carla replied, pointing to the intercom button they had obviously activated unknowingly as they kissed, causing Peter to shake his head in frustration.

"Oh," Emily said. "Did you forget your key?"

"Umm…" Peter shrugged, he had no option but to play along. "Yeah, sorry. Do you mind?"

"Sure."

_Bzzzzz_

For a moment, Carla and Peter stared at each other, regretting that once again their passion had been cut short.

"After you," Peter said, holding the door open for Carla to pass through.

"Next time, Barlow."

* * *

"So," Peter asked Emily as he and Carla entered the flat moments later. "How was he?"

"He was a perfect angel," Emily said. "He's in bed, fast asleep."

"You two had a good time together?" Carla asked, kissing Emily on the cheek.

"Yeah, the best."

"I'm glad," Carla smiled at her daughter. "You ready to go?"

"Oh, actually," Emily began with a pleading smile. "I'm just gonna duck over to the café first, drop something off for Hayley."

"At this time of night?"

"I promised Hayley," Emily protested. "Please, mum, I'm just gonna drop off my design and then I'll be right back."

"They'll be long gone to their bed," Carla said. "Why not wait til morning?"

"Well, I'll put it through the letterbox, then."

Before Carla could protest further, Emily hurried out the door and tripped lightly down the stairs; a moment later they heard the downstairs door slam shut and the heels of Emily's leather boots click-clacking across the cobbles.

"She's headstrong, that one," Peter said with a grin as he took Carla's hand in his. "Takes after her mother."

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Carla teased, not resisting when Peter pulled her into his arms as they wrapped around her waist, not for the first time that night. And again they kissed, again Carla's hands reached for Peter's face, her fingers caressing his cheeks, as her lips swept over his lips and her tongue darted into his mouth.

As Carla stepped back against the kitchen counter and Peter stepped forward, she could feel his erection pressing into her, straining to free itself from its fabric prison.

"Peter," Carla said, pulling her face away from him.

"Carla," Peter moaned softly as he pressed his lips into her neck, his hands once again seeking out her breasts.

"We can't."

"Yes, we can," Peter breathed as he left a trail of kisses along Carla's shoulder.

"Emily will be back any second."

"Stay," Peter stopped to gaze into Carla's eyes, a silent plea to her.

"What?"

"Stay with me tonight."

"Oh, Peter, I'd love to, but…"

"But what? I need you, Carla. I want you."

"What about Simon?"

"He's asleep."

"And Emily? No, Peter, not tonight. I need to get Emily home. And you need to give Simon some consistency in his new life. Not have a pair of almost complete strangers stay over."

"I thought you wanted this as much as me?"

"I do," Carla said. "Just not tonight."

"Fine," Peter pulled away from Carla and plonked down onto the sofa, his arms crossed and his gaze pointedly ignoring Carla. "That's fine."

"Oh, don't be like that, Peter." Carla leaned down over the back of the sofa and, draping her arms over Peter's shoulders, kissed him softly on the cheek. "I'm not saying never."

"You've made your feelings pretty clear."

"Yeah," Carla pulled away from Peter. "I have. You know I want you, I wouldn't have let Portsmouth happen if I didn't. But, Peter, do you seriously think it's okay for us to spend the night together while your son, clearly still traumatised from his mother's death, is sleeping in the room next door, and our teenage daughter is kipping out here on the sofa?"

But Peter remained hard-hearted, his arms folded, his eyes staring straight ahead.

"See, I told you," Emily declared as she burst back into the room. "I told you I'd only be a minute."

"Let's go," Carla grabbed her handbag and made a beeline for the door without another word or backwards glance at Peter.

"Did I miss something?" Emily asked in confusion, staring at the door her mum had just disappeared through and then back to her dad. "Peter?"

"No," Peter shook his head. "You should get going, it's late."

"Oh," Emily frowned. "Okay. Bye then."

"Thanks, you know, for looking after Si tonight."

"That's okay, he's a sweet kid," Emily brushed off his thanks. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Okay… night."

Confused and, if she were honest, a little bit hurt by Peter's behaviour, Emily flew down the stairs, anxious to be out of her father's flat, a place that had almost instantaneously become filled with a tension she didn't understand. She pulled out the photograph of Peter from 1991 that she had tucked into her pocket and wondered just what it was that made this man tick.

* * *

Peter sat unmoving on the sofa long after Carla and Emily had left. Unable to shake off his mood, he allowed himself to wallow in self-pity; that Carla had rejected him, that his daughter probably hated him after the way he'd spoken to her, that he had to stay at home right now and look after his son, when all he wanted to do was hightail it to the nearest bar and get trashed.

He couldn't go out to a bar, he accepted that. But there was nothing stopping him from getting trashed. Certainly not his so-called family, who couldn't wait to get away from him. No. No one would stop him.

He jumped to his feet and made a beeline for the cupboard above the sink where he'd stashed a bottle of whiskey earlier that day. He unscrewed the top and, not bothering with the impracticalities of a glass, poured the fiery amber liquid straight from the bottle and into his mouth. He shuddered as the alcohol drained down his throat, but soon enough he felt that familiar warmth, that numbness, that feeling of being invincible, course through his body.

He loved this feeling, he craved it, wanted it more than anything else in this world. So he tipped his head back once more and drank his fill.


End file.
